The Revenant

Downhill . . . and I met myself,
a pale ghost glimmering
the way a poacher’s torch shines            
there – now there – between the trees                

so it seems at moments as if                
they too are ghosts, walking                
in a new light, coming
out of memory towards you . . .                

When we met, myself and I,                
each cast the other into a kind
of shining shadow,

the younger self ascending through me            
like a shiver, as I turned
toward the house below.

Tags:poetry