Mostly, I remember the crazed dust motes
dancing chaotically in rapier light streams
thrown by the tall sashed windows,
each set high up, to dissuade
our wandering attentions, offering
no view of the nearby verdant cricket pitch.
I remember absent-mindedly fingering
the inked-in desktop graffiti during story time,
as if reading Braille, my oblivious stroking
adding to the patina of generations past,
as fag card sporting heroes and long-lost loves
faded beneath my wandering fingers.
I recall the brown flecked worsted overcoat
you wore for early morning hymns and prayers,
at least the smell of it, a warming stench
on chilly rainy days, cast iron radiators, fired up
to inflict first-degree burns.
But most dearly, I remember the crackle and hum
of the overpainted Tannoy, croaking out
a recording of ‘I vow to thee my country’,
and you standing to attention like a guardsman,
sixty years on, it still brings a tear to my eye.
*
© Graham Sherwood 05/2020
grahamrichardsherwood.co.uk 