Two Treehouses

On my circular dog walk
there is a tidy treehouse
with no way to climb up

It is likely to be reached
by a foot-propped ladder
lent by someone’s parent

It has been made to last
by some eye-aligned tools
It is not my younger prop

of wood hefts – sly thefts
off a builder’s dry bonfire
by our ever-hapless gang

to make our cobbled den
of swiped timbers – to lift 
us – half a century earlier

above wired private land
in our splintered cockpit
of near-balanced planks

But this one has fat bolts
to hold – and a guarantee
of an adult’s supervision

On my circular dog walk
there is a tidy treehouse
with no way to climb up