Deer on the road

Out of the mist, on the road for home, he veered from our car; and no signs anywhere, though those trees higher up are called Hartwood. And though he was gone so suddenly, he won’t disappear; the dark solidness and startled eyes. When I close my own he floats in front like that ice age deer in the flow of the river, or the hart of dreams, but real, earth coloured. And I don’t know why we didn’t stop and follow him over sodden fields, through clinging drops of mizzled rain, odd wavered things catching our feet, damp hair snagged with twigs and leaves; till we reach the copse on the slope of the hill, where we’re the dream, soaked and not sure why we’ve come this far with nothing in sight, but unable to leave the deep night of the woods till he leaps in front, the star of his rump glimmered white.