©2021 Michael Raven

i walk my own path
through the woods
with wights clinging
to my side
-- they remain 
silent
watchful,
waiting for the dim one
to learn how
to speak their tongue

phantom passing touches
of strangers give slight
warmth, but
never ever enough
& the mists
always return to
chilling flesh, bone, heart

they hop:
branch to branch to
ground to stump to rot
sometimes laughing
at the fool following
sometimes chiding
the child who is following
sometimes silently
guiding the man wandering
down the narrow 
wooded path
-- memory escaping
-- thought deepening
while the trees backfill
the footprinted loam
behind