In the dawn canvas
cold pressed back on boots,
they drifted
where no-one else did;
in one semi-silence of morning
each a perfect impression.
And shadows scripted
from certain lined “M”s
to “W”s and unknown alphabets,
the trees spelt woodland signatures,
clear in the long, blue light.
I’ve recognised them often,
but still don’t know
all their elder names,
there’s only the remembered trace
that I follow
to sign in my own
soon to be discovered,
less ancient snow impressions.
