Nights of Atonement

My hand trails along the ice encrusted bracken as I follow the path to the pond. Rough granite and packed earth underfoot gives little surety as I slide sideways at every third step. Not the graceful doe seeking water, but the heavy step of the condemned, the stagger of one not knowing how many heart beats might be left. I pause, taking shallow breaths that pour smoke into the pre dawn light. Through a gap in the trees, I can just spy the last stars making a lazy farewell, the party guests who stay too late, but no one wants them to leave.

I start moving again, feeling the call wrap around my bones drawing me onwards. The trees begin to break, the path levels out and I know just beyond the bend I will be there.

The Long Lake we used to call it, laughing. A small irregular pond birthed from a landscape scarred by quarries. No one really knew how deep it was. Once there was a rumour of a golden fish. If I caught it, would it grant me a wish? Would it bring you home?

I round the corner, and tonight the pond is bathed in moonlight. The foliage thrown into sharp negative as the moon trains a spotlight on this moment, my confession, my absolution where I come to see you one more time.

Silent words fall from my lips, apologies will never be enough and still what could I have done? I was powerless too. I plead for your understanding, your forgiveness, your mercy to make it through another day.

Would I have bought you here? To see the secret treasures of each season. To hear the staccato beat of your footsteps on the path, rushing to see what has changed on the winds. Throwing yourself into the pond with wild abandon, scolded by the ducks waiting for their daily bread. Would you have had a more measured pace? Drinking in the sights and smells at every step, the small wonders of the spider in her web, the veins of a leaf, a dragonfly dancing a brief greeting before returning to the sky. The feel of the awakening land as spring returns.

As the wheel turns to summer, I would show you how to tickle the small fish hiding in the shallows, feeling tadpoles dart around your bare toes as they sink into the silt, surprising a giggle from your lips.

In autumn I would show you not a land dying, but a land preparing to be reborn after a long slumber. The fallen leaves not a dirge but a last joyful explosion of colour, celebrating life. The harvest sustaining our animal friends, stealing a few blackberries but not too many, hands and faces stained with purple mischief.

This place, joyous in summer, forsaken in winter except for those who come to add their sighs of grief to the mists. Breathless angels dancing across the mirrored surface, soon to be banished by the onrush of golden dawn. I can almost see you, laughing, formed of nothing but vapour and a mother’s desire to see you once more. I almost touch your hand but cruel spears of light burn through the trees and the spell is broken.

The moment has ended. The winter sunlight is too harsh for my dark heart, and like the shadows skittering away from the brittle light I turn for home. Now the path is thrown into stark relief. Every sharp edge of stone gilded in ice, just as sharp but infinitely fragile. The butterfly’s wing of winter. Traced across the ground in a delicate filigree broken with just one step. The sun beats weakly against my back as I run my hands along the spiky stems, the ice already melting with the promise of a new day. This place is no longer mine, now comfortable in the shadows, the warm embrace of night. Hidden, unknown, still full of possibility.

Until the stars rise again.