A squeeze of the hand

and then I was off, alone,

entering my cathedral:

arches of gold vermilion

crowning my gaze,

the mud underfoot, dark,

littered with

leaves who had rejoiced

their decline,

drifting, falling

to become food for the worms.

I placed

my raging head

against the brow

of a veined and shimmering

birch, whispering

greetings and thanks

in gasps of relief.

No one but me

and the breath of trees and

a squirrel gathering sweetly,

a magpie or two

like flashes,

shots of blue and black in the

corners of my vision,

with the others

more-than-human.

I smelt the sweetness

of exalting life and decay,

a scent that

I used to bathe in

under purpling childhood skies,

but that feels more

remote to me now.

I breathed in the past,

I breathed in homecoming.

The path winds and splits

and reunites.

And although I stepped gently onwards

I began to care not that

my feet would become dirty,

feeling, sensing

the pad of paws always

following, leading me