The Pine Marten
There is blood on the snow
and a trickle of rowan berry juice
on his bib where the pine marten
stands for a moment like a man.
What colour should I turn, slipping
after him into the woods, his trail
gone cold and his scent lost
among the dead leaves and tree bark?
Elusive familiar: there is no reason
why we need meet. Will we
have so much as been here at all?
I too have never seen my own face.