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?’