After lunch, we knock on the door

my brother and I.

Is Stephen playing out?

The perennial plea of childhood,

He appears and by unspoken agreement

we march purposefully off

past the anonymous houses

that line the suburban streets

to the sand hills a short mile away.

 

As we walk, we plan

the construction of a magnificent fortress

to repel rapacious invaders,

who may or may not attack.

And anyway, just building it will prove

the greatness of our gang.

 

We survey the land until we find

a natural hollow in the sand

surrounded by banks of coarse, drab green grass.

We bridge it with splintery planks

and corroding corrugated metal

purloined from a building site,

and camouflage it with sand

excavated from within

using our bare hands.

 

Belatedly we think to open a gap in the roof

to act as a vent above the fireplace,

away from the entrance

tunnelled with scrabbling hands.

The fire is formed with foraged wood

and prickly grey-green gorse

using precious matches, stealthily pilfered

from under unsuspecting parental notice.

 

We stand guard,

sitting inside our hideout

wreathed in smoke that refuses to go up the chimney

as potatoes roast in flaming embers,

ready to fend off any attacking force.

Occasionally we peer outside

to spy out enemy forces

and breathe the fresh summer air.

 

Eventually the fire dies down.

We remove the potatoes,

juggling them as we attempt to eat

the half-raw feast.

Best ever, we all agree.

The sun is dipping down over the distant river

as by tacit consensus we decide

it must be time for tea.