My father comes back from the dead,
having been transfigured.
Now, he’s a tracker, out on the edge of the town,
following a line of cloven prints
to where the snow begins, beyond the pines.
He’s slower now, and careful of the world
around him, so there’s space enough for me
to follow after, nothing to betray
or harbour, in the knotwork of the heart,
and barely a glimmer to show
for the fallow deer
that frays against the wind till it steps free,
no backward glance, no scent, no mere redemption,
only a gap in the snow, when it slips away.