I should not know
that the grass that grows
on the other side of the barbed wire fence
really is more green.
And I should not have been
to the top of the steepest field
by climbing through brambles
on hands and knees.
And I should not have seen
the place, where in between
the rocks grow orchids, like a forest
of tiny, curling trees.
These are my trespasses.
Stone and Bone were always here, on this Hill.
A child buried with love long ago.
The urn and contents now removed
To some museum store.
I watch my Son teasing his shadow on the back wall of Harboro' Cave. He twists and dances with it, balancing on one leg on the eon smooth boulders that crouch down on the cave floor. Arms up, he does 'bunny ears'; leg up arm thrust out, then there is a Dragon of sorts.
I close my eyes against the sword of Autumn light that slants so strongly into the cave at this time of year. When I do, I can still see my Son, shadow dancing at the back of my iris, my brain and eye echoing this intensity of light and dark. I open my eyes again and there he is, skipping between two worlds.
I photograph him with a ghost dog barking at his feet, but this is a light trick, it is a strange shadow cast by one of the boulders he hops on and off. I capture this image in this World, as this boy of mine plays with a shadow dog from another place and time of his imaginings.