I took this photo - same holiday; 1966. Taken on the Capburn Bridge - now part of the Rail Trail.
How you’d have hated it, being that weak ghost
I dream of, the insubstantial father
too self-centred and ill to engage.
You’d prefer to be a dead hero,
the Larado cowboy of your songs, cold
as clay and long-lamented. And you have been.
Time now to address that dreamed imposter,
instruct it to remain under its weathered headstone,
or in its own paradise of green hill and stream
alone with its feeble heart and bloodless wounds.
For that pale invalid is not the real you.
You are ancestral-strong, beyond sight and sound, yet
not unwitnessed. You are the grin I hear in the corner
of my eye.