Dura Den

Fissured, enfolded
this steep cleft flies down

from ordinary fields’
Sunday afternoons

to inner earth,
dark, simmering , dusk’s

deep air breathed slow,
spiral in amber –

turns our footprints
into fossil fish, with ferns for bones

flying through stone cirrus,
fox-shaded kaleidoscope –

remember the thrush
we hid under leaf-fall

to unravel or
be made again?

Fireflies spark and snap
on private, uncharted paths –

memory’s domain
somewhere between us

Pippa Little