smokers

Beyond the furthest goalpost, at the edge

of the wood where smokers hid, was a pond

clogged with glue tins, an Asda trolley and,

sometimes, discarded tasks – notes, a poem.

In every sense, it was out of bounds.

I was one of a group of subversives,

teaching childhood and choice in a land

of deference and property. We would

measure success anecdotally, ignoring

statistics. Now that we have lost the past,

I believe that the children must make

the revolution. Their graffito should be,

‘Innocence rules! OK?’