Walking way back where the freight-rails run,
where the Rhode Island phantom
was said to move throughout.
A full form specter
not of the Jackson-White or Melungeon,
weaving past wilted tree bark,
down crags, over creek beds.
It only comes when clouds
take the suns place,
illuminating darker land,
solving the shade of a tree.
And a Lonsdale boy
and his Labrador went missing,
leash and all in a lashing sun-shower.
Near the Blackstone River
in taverns where men sun
themselves red after dark,
its name is Spring-Heeled Jack
and the bushel fiend.
A transient chased to a quarry bottom
by hounds and birdshots,
100 years back.
Bring the lights up just enough
and it'll never cross the rock-fence gate
or prowl the porch for dried goods
and non-perishables.
Local dogs bay
when it crosses property lines,
preying on the autumn-born,
and of similar demeanor.
When a touched boy took stitches
in his forehead,
when a mute girl scraped her knee cap,
they spoke of an apparition.
Blamed for the bum crop,
club foot and curly hair.
It never took a smart photograph
or left a traipse, most every glimpse
in April and September,
when leaves were in transit
to and from knotted branch limbs.