Little paths

Wind up the hillside

Traced in the grass by little feet

Guided darkly

By aromatic pathways

The colour of scent never lies

Cut into straw fields

The paths wander aimlessly

With hopeful purpose in every step

Blood in the dirt

Skin on the trees

All are echoes of history

Motion is meaning

As the passage narrows

And tightens to a single thread

It is here.

It is there.

It is.

“Come on girl!”

A call in the darkness

Illuminates the day

And the chase is forgotten

The same little paths

Are retraced by little feet

Searching for warm embraces

But even when you leave,

The little paths remain,

Impressing little memories on the hillside.