On the eve of the Big Camp
I sit, stewing in the resurrection of
old bones that should long have been laid to rest.
Faded thoughts resurface of last year's downpour -
the raging torrent that nearly spilled it's banks,
the endless mud and no flames.
All ghosts now revived;
fully fleshed and fresh in mind.
I give them life, then see life through them.
I. Am. Not. Looking. Forward. To. This.
The warm, felted roundness of the Maker yurt enveloped me.
My heart (forever turned) yearns for the soporific stove
which soothed the smalls to slumber
and smoothly warmed the marrow of me.
Instead, we are, once again, heading under cold creamy canvas...
The children, though, are giddy;
nestled like slugs in their brand new raspberry bags
they cannot wait to be released into the wild.
They tear round the lounge, hooting with laughter,
whilst we gather up the house and bundle it into the boot.
For them, it was The Stuff of Dreams;
the rain and mud merry bedfellows in their play.
Only for the grumbling grown-ups
did the inclement weather cloud the day
(the weather never really held any sway).
And at the darkest stage of twilight,
a hush descends as I remember the joys of
a pared back life; a life stripped bare.
Just the bones of us.
Living simply; simply living.
And I realise...
I. Can. Not. Wait.