Onward and back to the past, when things around the campfire were a little more basic. I sometimes wonder why I ever continued. This from an old prompt and the writing is weak especially towards the end. I hope to improve as time goes on and maybe later it can be looked at again to give it more history. But each day I write, the store of work increases, how long can it go on?
A sagging canvas tent, dripping at the joining of liner and flysheet,
raining when guy-ropes snagged a night-time toilet seeker.
We woke each morning damp inside old army sleeping bags,
wearing all the clothes we had, and kept our boots in the tent porch.
Vain attempts to keep the sides in contact with the ground sheet meant
the spread of belongings beyond the bounds of ownership.
Warm and cold and wearing crumpled clothes we shivered a wash
free from mirrors and showers, sometimes a hot pan on a cold day.
In the big tent, teachers gave away the day’s food and the meeting
of damp and musty children was the scent of spicy woodland.
When there is enough blue to make a sailors trousers,
it is a good day to be outside. The mist on the grounds
surrounding the camp site that spread from the river
made ghost stories real and all the while burning meths
and the roar of a primus in full flow battled the yelling
of the failed attempt. The melted plastic puddles
meant we really were living in the wild.