Panicked tiny footprints, zigzag, sharp;
Each an arrow hungry for direction.
Across them, newer, the fully-fledged
Outlines of boots, strong, deep.
Ahead, the bootprints side by side,
Suddenly, decisively: imagine the arms.
Further on still, the arrows stagger,
Stop, and fading blood reds the way.
This is the tale the snow tells,
Along the ugly, thorn-jagged hedge.
Its record is brief, the warmer winds
Of oblivion will sweep in, soon, too soon.