All the outworks are fading,
the light showing through.
They raised a playground
from the spoil heap. The old place,
you wouldn’t know it.
The rope, the ladder:
the soft fort, the short landing
on bonded rubber.
We are surrounded.
Willow warblers sound the wood,
slow our defences.
Heat at a standstill:
it burns in the stone bank, then
abandons the hill.
Wincobank, Sheffield, 11 April 2014