There by the lake we made our camp,

in a clearing between forest and bank,

and canvas tents, pitched storm-style.

 

The kitchen we built from fallen wood,

cut and lashed together with sisal,

set around the stone-circled cooking fire.

 

When we woke, shafts of sun trickled

through glistening beech and pine,

still moist from early morning mizzle.

 

Breakfast, fried on an open fire,

wood crackling counterpoint to hot fat.

Bacon, eggs and sausage al fresco taste better.

 

We squabbled over the kayak. Who would go

for supplies to the village across the lake.

Fresh milk, and bread without the blue mould.

 

Bark and leaf taught us the trees,

oak, elm, horse chestnut and sycamore,

all searched out and committed to memory.

 

We learned too, not to cut the live ones

whose sap ran rich like our own blood.

Dead and fallen limbs fair fuel for the axe.

 

Eight teenagers, no supervision, no drownings,

no broken limbs, no poisonings, no disasters,

responsibly roaming free, no worries.