Newick Ghosts

There are no palpable ghosts
in this slept Sussex town
of three pubs, all dark,
beyond those dead flags
on the village green,
odd tablecloths, emblems
stiff under the freezing fog.
Nor are there are any stars,
just winks of burglar alarms.
I walk the dog for pisses
and sniffs, past the slept
and snored, those locked-in,
under tugged-at wed duvets.
The path is our slippery task,
so we adopt the road’s dashes
to guide us, me fog-blinded.
A clicked floodlight wakes
to make us both turn, fooled
by the automatic other presence.