Just three miles inland from the coastal town
Amidst the furrowed fields of nearby farms,
Lies that patch of land where I spent the best part
Of boyhood, away from the stresses and strains
Of adolesence and the dead weight of others.
There, with all the exhuberance of youth,
I was happiest.
The path led down into an enclave of woods
Encircling all, sheltering from wind and sight;
To the left lay the tumbledown hut,
Aging and spartan, never quite 'done up';
In the centre lay the camping ground; to the right
More woods, ferns, and shrubs. And at the bottom
A plashing murmuring burn burbled past the
Length of campsite, a slow meander
Arcing always away, eating more ground
From its opposite bank where lay a blanketed
Undergrowth of woods, grasses, leaves, moss and bark.
None of this seemed special; ordinary trees,
Everyday grass, a little burn, a little shelter.
An oasis, perhaps, a lush island of calm
In the brooding gloom of youth. But still
So many incidents remain, moments of
Being that transcend their time and speak
To me, still, across the distancing years:
Once, snowed in, all plans discarded,
How we competed to make snow-sculptures,
Showing our skill - an igloo, a pyramid, a car;
Sitting under the stars swigging illicit cider,
Faces glinting gold from the glowing fire,
The woody hoot of an owl fillling contented gaps;
Sleeping under a ill-erected bivouac
Collapsing under us til we woke in the grey May morning;
How four of us put up an enormous marquee
Laughter guarding the strain, two supporting the
>Elepantine frame as two manically pegged away.
None of this was so special; yet the small moments
Fill me with a love lying under all I do,
Act as warming memories in the frost of loneliness
Caught on December's cobblestones,
And show that our lives live with us always.
Infinite present shows infinite past:
What occurs remains forever.
