Poplars

the smell of poplars always takes me back 

walking under a row of tall slim trees, leaves crushing underfoot
instantaneously that earthy sweet smell transports me
to a memory of golden light in shortened days in that young thicket where we weaved our ways, the acres, fallen tree stumps and hideaways of our kingdom
racing in the autumn winds
against a pretended foe
an invented danger
not knowing the true enemies
of our childhood happinesses
(naivety saw them stretching forward unendingly)
were time and distance
forcing us to leave behind those days
filled by buckets of fir cones,
piles of leaves, (crispy-edged, we burrowed into their cold damp hearts and spread them open to the waning sun) 

edifices constructed with adult discards and forest finds (a bent metal fence post, ragged plywood, fern fronds, pine boughs)
and, leaving our forts undefended,

rushing inside cold and grubby
to hot chocolate
sometimes with marshmallows