Pacing Backwards

First, a winding lane

wedged hard into winter.

Then tall hedgerows

heavy with rose hips;

blood red

against the glistening snow.

Next, fresh footprints,

alone, but sure

which I follow

blindly

over the stile,

across the sweep of fields.

Lastly, I turn,

back from an unknown end -

to the safety

of a beginning.