Abbot House

Tam heard it in daylight hours:
Feet away, people chatted in sunshine,
Stopped on the worn cobbles.

Whistling, he worked on a board,
Replaced many times since the Great Fire, 
But once more loose with age.

It was just faint creak at first,
Subtle, a whisper. Then he brisked
to sounds trickling through the ether.

An ancient monk trailed the hem
Of his drab brown gown, swishing past,
His tonsured head glinting faintly.

Tam, a practical man, pauses his toils:
overwhelmed by cooking smells, 
A tartness of spices, a bounty of herbs
flavouring stews asimmer above a fire.

A serving maid rushes past.
Tam concentrates on cutting.
The ghosts retreat into thick walls,
To return another day.

©Linda Kathleen Menzies