stones and laces fly as your soles hit the gravel
on that thick sunday morning
the mist heavy around us
your blouse slowly untucking itself
as you disappear over the crisp hill
you tell me not to follow you
the bitter bite of frost pinches at my hands
hanging heavily by my sides
hot savage breaths ballooning in the cold air
i hear your father's deafening roar
(or perhaps i imagine it)
and it is then that i finally i start to tremble
in all the glory
of the emerging sun.