Barn Fragments

With our hoods pulled tight,
Working all a purpose –
An English summer in rubber boots –
And a fallen star under every arm
Climbing Hinksey Hill.

We built that fort like grown men,
And defended it,
Until the world shrank to the size
Of a bee sting.

Mirror lakes between us
And the greying vines
Of the parson’s wall
Were routes to other lands,
Trod to well-worn paths,

And the house-martins
Sang us songs to pretend to,
While we drank moonshine
from sparkling valley streams.