Cold, damp, we entered the dented slope into the hillfort.
We hunted for something for our clump of clay.
On Friday Ruth and I spent a wintry morning on Lower Camp at Pontesford Hill with Y5 and Y6 children from Minsterley Primary. Archaeologists Mike and Teri Greene made a dramatic appearance, waving spears and shields, and clay was marked and poems were written.
A Cornovii warrior stood sharp with spear and shield.
Trees, birdboxes, grass, leaves, grass, leaves, sky
The snow fell onto my hair.
I picked up a leaf and it crumbled when I pressed it into clay.
I pressed soft, squishy clay into the bark of a tree.
I put my weight behind it.
My leaf was rough and hard to tear off
but a perfect, delicate pattern transferred.
Out of nowhere Iron Age people
popped from behind a tree,
blue patterns on their faces.
I punched my clay into the eye of an oak.