The light on the fields
slowly vanishing,
the old dark padding back,
the old sifting of dust.
I sat by the stone, rainspots
had pitted and dried. Here the wind
carries everything off:
seeds, names, old barns.
In such light we skirted the clearing,
sunset breaking across us. And ran
through the open, we howled
so the stones must hear us.
In the scrub leaf-mould thickened,
cold to my hands. I fell there,
the pack left me, heat of my body
left me, a briar whipping my cheek.
Creatures had dug in the frost,
their small breaths melting the ice,
little wandering pumps
chewing up leaves. I was a wolf,
my work to wait
till nightfall and catch them. It could be
my boots snapping sticks
through this wood is all I want now.
It could be that sitting here
with my black gloves on a stump
keeping my hands’ shape
is what I always wanted.