In Memory of Mary Lou

Along the rabbit trail...beneath the black spruce...Amanita muscaria...brown Morel...and red topped lichen...all...clung to the green mosses...like a faery's robe or a tall lord...of the Danaan shee...and the boy crawled...a fey boy...of slight and mystical temperament...of a need to be unseen...

He crawled there...knees wet...hands cool...eyes blue...hair as bright as white gold...deep into...this secret place...where he sat...himself among...a little grove of trees...and there...before his half believing gaze...a grave embedded...in the space...so real...in that late afternoon...

The boy knelt down...as if to pray...and reached to touch...cold grey marble...smooth as mother's arm...and clean as if...a new broom...had done the thing...no foot had trod...this sacred space...nor any mark...of man...save him...a fair fey child...of another ken...

his finger traced so lightly...long an epitaph that read..."In Memory of Mary Lou"...and there...upon that stone...upon that grave...of cool dark awe...he spied...a little Collie dog...in effigy...of porcelain...now...why...he never knew...but crawled away that eve...in twilight...of another sense...

The child never knew...nor to this day...the man...whatever grew that vision...and he tried and tried...again and once again...though...yet...that truth eluded him...and haunted all his days...for...in that forest...is a grave...as sure and beautiful...and kept...as any tomb...where ever any wept...yet...what it means...a myst'ry  unknown...forever...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Photo: of natural forest cross, credit not presently known