Into the gloam, the cracked path descending,
You weave your way through the glen and the flood.
You crush the wild garlic and bending,
Find claw-tipped prints, pressed into the mud.
A stickled oak slumps its sodden carcass,
Across the sphagnum in its beaded bed.
Slouching and yawning into the darkness,
Red ruins at the trickle burns head.
I am the something that swallows the day.
A taste of iron. On the tongue, a rough stone.
I leap, and tear at every possibility.
Puncturing your future, I follow you home.