Footprints

On a frigid winter evening, so still that hot breath lingered around my face. In snow sparklingly dry and crystalline I encountered fresh-made footprints, leading off my mostly trodden path. The sun was low in evening's sky creating long dark spectral shadows that would all too soon be swallowed. But for a moment illumed the footprints in a strange, compelling light. A fleet chilling wind whisked around flurrying the fine, icy flakes, attempting to erase the marks. Against the will to forge ahead imprint the virgin snow, I turned; and followed the path the footsteps made. No further prints I saw upon the ground; no evidence of animal or other. Though in the distance I could hear, as darkness drew its shroud, the wailing of nocturnal beasts. Then deathly, eerie silence save for crying of the wind in tangled trees; as I was led through thickets coarse, and forests deepest gloomy dark, to end beneath an ancient misty lychgate. I stood beside a solitary grave one word; 'Father,' etched upon the stone. I glanced back from whence I came In snow sparklingly dry and crystalline; one single track of fresh-made footprints, illumed in strange, compelling light.