The place was riddled with shortcuts,
tunnels of shoulder-high green
we scarpered down. Under foot
startled hares fluttered
like pigeons taking off.
We scrabbled in muck beside
the rubble of farms long gone,
grubbed up bits of blue and white,
boles of bleached clay pipes,
hollow stems light as bird bones.
We laid walls of brushwood
end to end, tall stalks
of willowherb to thatch a roof,
scratched a form in the grass
to go to ground in before we flew.