Near-extinct ferns grew above us.

You held my hand tight as the shadows shifted

and we went deeper into the darkness.

The guide taught us of geology, dynamite.

Then we were in the cave-cathedral, limestone

stretching tall. The lights went off,

and we were awash in the deepest dark.

Our eyes searched for a hint of June sunshine,

then stars. Bats darted through the cool air.

Your breath stayed steady. We were in the quiet.

Whatever was to happen would happen.

Minutes passed; we got used to the dark.

Unexpectedly, the caves lit up again.

We made our way back to the carpark,

our footsteps echoing as we squeezed

and then crawled the last meters from the cave

back to the campervan, back to the road.

Our lives were still hundreds of kilometers away

waiting for us with the patience of the coast

waiting as the befores and afters faded and left us

alone and here together, now.

Share your stories with us. For guidance and inspiration, here are a few other recent entries: about weekend sport, birthday cakes, another road trip, for the birds, no hat, no play, a housewarming party, tales of nippers, growing up on the creek, generational angst, paying with pineapples, magical mermaid pools, lizard friends, nude beaches, music and road trips, curious lifeguards, death and kindness, plus poetry and #metoo on the work site.

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