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?