Spoor (Poetry)

I dreamt a poem last night —
we followed a deer,
tracked its spoor through snow,
a neat double row
precise as stitches
edging the field’s smooth length.

In the sharpness of each print
we read an image,
saw loose ends of grass
dropped — fresh-cut trimmings
like fabric scraps
litter a workroom floor.

We imagined the contrast
as dark hooves pierced white,
the rhythmic sewing
a treadle’s slow pace
hemming the crispness,
keeping rawness in place.

Measured, stride for clumsy stride,
our four boots unpicked
the seam, made ragged
by our heavy use
edges frayed — trail lost
where the deer leapt the hedge.