Footprints in the snow

That night the snow had fallen fast and thick
upon the moss-strewn roofs, the fields, the wold;
the farmer woke when something seemed to lick
his face above the blankets – just the cold.

He slept again, and dreamed of being outside
and walking, with no crutches, through the snow
to meet his wife. One voice called: “But she died.”
And then another: “Still some way to go.”

He saw his sturdy footprints both behind
and stretching out before him. “Nearly there.”
The second voice again; it sounded kind,
and not unlike, he realised then, his Claire.

The carer came at 8:12. “Morning, Bill!”
she called, then “Bill?” But there was no reply.
He’d found Claire on the summit of their hill
and joined her there, beneath the winter sky.

Felicity Teague

If you have any thoughts about this poem, Felicity Teague 
would be pleased to hear them.