in which I was lost, carrying

a colourless cloud of grief 

in a close half-dark. Roots grasped at me;

moss underfoot was radioactive green.  

Strange how tears 

have the same effect as  trees,

obscuring the vision. A chill of fear, too, 

in not knowing how to escape,

or where the way out might take me.

In the distance sunlight, 

a golden field, sky;

but closer, five silent forms,

black silhouettes against the trunks,

silver-grey as they ran 

near the wood’s edge, where the sun 

penetrated its green gloaming.

They had something in mind,

that much was clear. 

I stopped dead still, watchful, until

they louped around,  

shepherded me on either side  

toward the calling field.

Header Image Credit: Polly Pullar