Mothering Sunday

(from the poem The Summer Fires)

What will they remember when they wake
Those children who built this for a thrill?
sprawled around it one warm night,
spread dusty laughter on the sun hardened hill
then rolled away at the first hint of light,
left the sun to blind and kill
all threat and fear of discovery,
left the ashes for the wind to rake,
and let the memory slip beyond recovery.