Moorland Path
The path between myself and the distant man
twists and turns. There are gullies and ridges
hags and troughs, a hoary dusk.
We are converging. He has my hat and clothes,
my resemblance.
Once I miscalculated;
I was out on the trackless moors too late,
darkness fell
I had to lose myself to find myself.
The figure is waving, not in greeting but warning.
As we draw nearer the sky darkens,
suddenly he is gone.
Later I look from a dark window and wonder
which of us came home?
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