by Adam F. Cornford

I believe we had been walking in the evening forest father
as once we used to climb the pine slopes of the Haute Loire
or Cotswold beech woods in green-sunk late summer sun
We must have been walking as night slowly rose from close
to the trunks into meshed radials of branches and the path
had paled to a gray stripe veering away between banks
And who but you would be my guide in these dark woods
not in the middle of my life but in the beginning of its end
And who but you father could grip my hand and carry us
up through cooling air between foliage filters whispering
into the interstitial wind blowing from the vanishing point
at the center of the still invisible horizon so that ascended
above treetop cumulonimbus flickering with butterflies
we see tall between hills the flung-wide gates of afterlight