Footprints in the snow

That night the snow had fallen fast and thick
upon the moss-strewn roofs, the fields, the wold;
the farmer woke when something seemed to lick
his face above the blankets – just the cold.

He slept again, and dreamed of being outside
and walking, with no crutches, through the snow
to meet his wife. One voice called: “But she died.”
And then another: “Still some way to go.”

He saw his sturdy footprints both behind
and stretching out before him. “Nearly there.”
The second voice again; it sounded kind,
and not unlike, he realised then, his Claire.

The carer came at 8:12. “Morning, Bill!”
she called, then “Bill?” But there was no reply.
He’d found Claire on the summit of their hill
and joined her there, beneath the winter sky.

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Published in Snakeskin