She left the hut and bright log fire at noon
And walked outside on crisp white winter snow
To find the iced slopes shadowed like the moon,
The wild wood desolate and bare below;
The red trees wet, adrift with icy flow,
The evergreens with glassy needled leaves;
A bloodstone veined red and white this view weaves.
But lifted off the path like crystal spheres
There lay cut prints of glinting stylised forms
Of birds not seen, large sparkling twig-like spears,
And squirrel pricks where fox’s paw transforms
White single roses out of petal storms;
While keltic scrolls transcribe where birds had been:
Then stamped in ice another track was seen.
A slight right turn of foot. She sensed him there,
Tree like with raincoat shouldered, fine large looks,
A four-armed god. From this sweet honeyed snare
She turned, upspraying, Marsh Tits, Finch and Rooks,
Through brushwood hills, seeing by frosted brooks
His footprints: these she retraced like a bride
With loaves and wood returned to his keen side.