Islet
thrown up extempore,
strata
layer-cake jiggly
and
rainbowed,
we
rowed out in a March hour,
rounded
it sea-side to find
no
landing there.
Wild
life was allowed, throve.
We
hadn’t come for that:
stone
had pulled us
into
the deeps of creation’s upping
and
thrusting, molten layers
tipped
over the hard.
We’re
tamed, feel crusting, display,
safe
as rock and houses:
what’s
passed is unseen.
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