The Hike

My empty hand
You did not fill.
Took it!
In a fierce grip
And set off
Through the dense woods,
As the rain dripped
And pattered;
Soft our faces.

My feet
In sound boots
Sinking imprints
In the giving mulch.
I squeak after,
Keeping pace with effort,
Just in your wake.

If I hesitate,
You tug me on;
Insistently gentle.
I cannot see
Where we are going.
I ask,
But you say,
‘Trust me.’

The fast pace,
The unknown path,
You thread through the trees.
I am
A little afraid.

I know I am
I complain
When life is incremental,
Moving in individual
Yet now I am
That you are in a hurry.

copyright Tina Towey 2015