Thanks to Dorothy for getting us on the move.
On Brown Clee
by Dorothy Leiper
Twelve tents, neatly arranged, almost in line; ten in a row and at either end one angled to keep watch provide a stop. Cub camp. Kids in sixes with Arkela book-ends.
Tired from the school week and ready for a change, they are not too tired to sleep, but prattle on in muttered confidences, squeals, mingled with the cries of protest as sleep insists and fellow campers deny.
As the sun, still well below the horizon, lightens the canvas from midnight blue to holly green to pale green the voices start in time with the first birds; little chatterings and chirrups.
A head pops out from the fumbled-open door, hovers an inch from the dewy grass at eye level with an upturned Wellington. A full bladder calls for relief and warmth of sleeping bag abandoned, tent ties pulled open, he staggers out, one foot reaching for the toppled boot, one hand clasping the dew sparkled canvas.
He leaves a green trail across the silver of the grass, continuous dragging of boot, flop, boot. A yawn, a glance up, a look around at the still camp. My, this is nothing like a Saturday morning at home.
by Dorothy Leiper
Twelve tents, neatly arranged, almost in line; ten in a row and at either end one angled to keep watch provide a stop. Cub camp. Kids in sixes with Arkela book-ends.
Tired from the school week and ready for a change, they are not too tired to sleep, but prattle on in muttered confidences, squeals, mingled with the cries of protest as sleep insists and fellow campers deny.
As the sun, still well below the horizon, lightens the canvas from midnight blue to holly green to pale green the voices start in time with the first birds; little chatterings and chirrups.
A head pops out from the fumbled-open door, hovers an inch from the dewy grass at eye level with an upturned Wellington. A full bladder calls for relief and warmth of sleeping bag abandoned, tent ties pulled open, he staggers out, one foot reaching for the toppled boot, one hand clasping the dew sparkled canvas.
He leaves a green trail across the silver of the grass, continuous dragging of boot, flop, boot. A yawn, a glance up, a look around at the still camp. My, this is nothing like a Saturday morning at home.
3 comments:
Lovely stuff Dorothy, could really see it all so clearly.
Tom
That's great, Dorothy - thanks!
Nadia
Captures the setting so well.
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