he goes as the crow flies
she in her own fashion

slow, slowly she approaches
the huddled herd lain for warmth 
so persuasive the weighty mass
she will decide when to abandon them

he sketches spires and hedges
she knows the edible mushrooms dell

he will see her before they meet
his hand in the fire by choice
in silent frost-crisp morn
who has the power cannot be said
frost-grey fields primed to blaze colour

he captures the sun and embroiled moon
she defeats troll, wolf and dragon

and now as the eyes of the least fortunate
have looked between the stars and quailed
the lambs in the growing heat stew
he and she transpire without explanation 
who need they explain to?

he goes as the crow flies
she in her own fashion