I punched my clay into the eye of an oak

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.

Using Poem Notes booklets to write down our ideas back in the classroom.

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. 

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