Call out. Call loud: ‘I’m ready! Come and find me!’

The sacks in the toolshed smell like the seaside.

They’ll never find you in this salty dark,

But be careful that your feet aren’t sticking out.

Wiser not to risk another shout.

The floor is cold. They’ll probably be searching

The bushes near the swing. Whatever happens

You mustn’t sneeze when they come prowling in.

And here they are, whispering at the door;

You’ve never heard them sound so hushed before.

Don’t breathe. Don’t move. Stay dumb. Hide in your blindness. They’re moving closer, someone

stumbles, mutters;

Their words and laughter scuffle, and they’re gone.

But don’t come out just yet; they’ll try the lane

And then the greenhouse and back here again.

They must be thinking that you’re very clever,

Getting more puzzled as they search all over.