Saturday was quarry exploring day.
Parents were lied to, food chucked into backpacks.
Down to Clayton Woods, through trees, over fence
Clay path looking over a yawning pit,
Surrounding it, narrow and exciting.
All out gang dared each other to clamber,
The quarry face thick with orange wet sludge,
Spidering down, delving into the depths,
Boots slipping, scuffing, scrabbling over sharp rocks.
We rode on abandoned cranes and diggers,
Imagining them roaring and alive.
Playing hide and seek around the metal,
Running, jumping into dark brackish pools,
Until the long climb up – finding hand holes,
Pulling ourselves toward the ledge and sky,
Back to parents with more Saturday lies,
Clay covered, muck dripping, smiling happy.
This writing feels both ancient and new. It carries echoes of voices long past, yet speaks directly to the present moment. That timelessness makes it resonate deeply, as though it belongs to all eras at once.