We trudged footprints in the snow,
Going places astronauts fail to go,
Each step a tread upon cold virgins,
The temporary notation of a life’s journey,
Onward whatever cards we’re dealt,
Soon to melt.
Upon the blankness of nature’s canvas,
We saw other travellers had ravished the maid,
Taking time in quite observance,
It became apparent others also were conveyed,
In a criss-cross of lines, despite cards they’re dealt,
Soon to melt.
Little marks of robins and sky larks,
Heavy distinctive pad of the crow,
Then there, seen by taking care,
The joyous hopping of Mr Hare,
Trailing a sure trail above his pelt,
Soon to melt.
Mr Hare, glee filled skip and jump,
Tracked away now, through a hedgerow,
But then as further we trot,
We see the marks of Mr Renard, the fox,
Tracking in skips around the hedge svelte,
Soon to melt.
The devil’s crafty disciple went straight,
Becoming a line so fine in the snow,
When suddenly there, noble emir, Mr Hare,
Shooting in circles, life paused, contemplate,
Remnants of blood on the snow,
Soon to melt.
