Brought Up Short (Poetry)

I have reached the point where the tiny footprints stop —
the very edge of knowing
and the beginning of bewilderment.

Here the ice forest stretches wild
its shape wind-blinded with snowing
and frozen ghosts gather —
the hunter — the soldier — the woodsman
and the wandered child
long-lost to its mother.

There’s no gap in the winter-locked trees
the branches weave so dense and tangled
there is no path to follow
no sign of the living anywhere
but shadows move and voices moan a warning
words thin-slice the air
cut sharp into memory — their sorrow tangible
uncertainty crusted to a trail of feet
suddenly brought up short ...

and the moment hangs fluttering like a thought
caught on a thorn.