My attention was caught by a little girl, who could not have been very much more than a year old, running along (tottering? teetering?) up ahead. Mum was behind her, a young African woman. I say African advisedly – you could tell by the way she dressed & walked & I doubt that, these days, anyone who had lived in England long enough to learn about paranoid parenting would be so relaxed about such a small child running on so far ahead, even though the area is completely traffic free
The little girl was clearly delighted with herself & you could sense her concentration – just staying upright, I assumed. Until I gradually caught up & could see that her concentration was fixed to something on her right
Just as I realised that she had found her shadow, the little girl made another discovery – the shadow’s arm moved up if she waved. And then, even better, she could make the shadow spread its fingers too!
I felt a wave of memories, of having just the same sort of fun on sunny days long, long ago. Mum was too far away to speak to without shouting, but I turned to share a smile
And remembered Robert Louis Stevenson’s poem, which seems to me an almost perfect poem for children (I have taken the liberty of making one tiny change to bring it in to the C21st)
I Hava A Little Shadow
I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me when I jump into my bed.
The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow -
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an indiarubber ball,
And he sometimes goes so little that there's none of him at all.
He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close behind me, he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to mummy as that shadow sticks to me!
One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.
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