We were researching what the night contains and shouldn't have been surprised to discover sheet ghosts. Do you agree that it is sheets ghosts who, in the final lines here, billow down lanes at dusk, like a mist of bleached portraits that don't exist, "who walk like a shivering laundry of shifted humanity"? From
The Force by Peter Redgrove, 1966. See
Of Feeding & Caring For Sheet Ghosts.