We walk in winterbare sunbright woods
a winding path that skirts fallen trees
sprawling bramble thickets
and forms its own linear ponds
where frogs protest our passage
I hear a clinking
high pitched, sharp, intermittent
and somewhere behind
Nothing in our gear is metallic and loose
I hear the noise, but he doesn’t
when I stop to listen, he is confused
stumbles into me
our path follows a millennium-old ditch
and I begin to suspect the noise comes from there
but the ditch contains only brown beech leaves
When we stop, the clinks stop
When we walk once more
clink clink clink after a small wait
Sun shafts through clawing branches
strange rustles lurk under leafdrifts
our pleasant walk reforms
mutates
into else and other
The clinks are always there
as long as we are beside the ditch
always
something follows
Copyright © 2022 Kim Whysall-Hammond
A real-life ghost story, shared for the open link weeked at Earthweal.
The Cheesesellers Wife 