In the moving gloom we saw
snatches of some lost secret
snagged by a twig. There was
a snapping and a hissing
and the hunting cry of an owl.
Ay ay ay, we should never
have been so deep in that place
where the past is buried in
leaf litter and fleshless lips.
Alas, we were carried by
squirrels in their game of chase.
Dropped in a pokey hole,
we stay still as bones,
and wait for destiny.
aplaceforpoetry 
no poem found?
Hmm, sometimes happens – technical hitch – I’ll try again.
I wondered where this was going until the mention of the ‘squirrels in their game of chase.’