The lure of footprints on the virgin snow;
they beckon softly, glist’ning in the light.
To warmth or peril, unsure where they go,
should she follow, to a wondrous sight?
Or turn her back, avoid a nameless plight.

The fading sun gasped at horizon’s fall,
a darkened shadow falling from the trees.
Her ears pricked as night began to call,
low murmurings of rumours on the breeze.
Soft whispers in the rustling of the leaves.

Temptation far too great for her to turn,
her feet sank ankle deep in powder snow.
For what lay down this trail, she would learn,
no matter what the price, she had to know.
The siren call of wind compelled her so.

Her lamp held high, a beacon shining out
to show her path, the air now quiet and still.
Her footsteps steady, now with not a doubt
left in her mind, the focus of her will
to hold the trail, her mission to fulfil.

Then dark! At once her light abruptly failed,
revealing things much better left unknown.
The wind returned, it echoed, shrieked, and wailed,
and in that inky blackness she was shown
her fate, now sealed, a doom but hers to own.

In naught but pristine snow the footprints stopped,
as undisturbed as snow had ever been.
Those following her steps were cruelly mocked.
For though the hunt was deep and wide and keen,
no trace of her was ever after seen.