Picnics near Venlo

There is a photograph.


The grass, tough, long,
some kind of marram,


grew everywhere
on thin soil over sand


in the grounds of the 
abandoned monastery


where anyone could 
pull in and set up camp.


Each time I would 
dig a hole my height


find branches, overlay 
with smaller branches


then more, until I’d built 
a hideaway, a den with


secret hatches for 
entrance and escape.


The sand was easy, 
came out clean, scooped


with cupped hands and
it was cool in there, 


cool and quiet and 
slightly damp, breathing


in wet minerals and 
salt and roots


Days after I would 
find the taste of sand 


and sunlight deep
in the back of my throat.