written by: Mike Bell
It was in the cloakroom,
aged five, where I cried,
not wanting to be there,
tearful in that mote-strung light.
We were surrounded by the shed skins
of other children, labelled,
those hook-hung anoraks,
into registered obedience,
unto the vast common hall,
beam-vaulted, a Victorian school,
I now know this hind-sighted as I am.
It was almost a prayer-free church,
with a never-trod office
stuck high in the wall, accessed,
it appeared, by God’s stairway.
And off that open space
high window-fitted doors
invited shy glances into classes,
but were beyond my height.
Did I hold Dad’s hand as he walked
with me through low furniture?
It made him an even bigger giant
in my small space.
We were shown past crate-piled milk,
bottled, to be expertly straw-poked,
unless as I later learned,
the birds got there first:
Sun-warmed, a gloop of cream on top,
the sure-indicator but never off,
that first lesson
in my infant education.
- The Mass Of Men - October 14, 2017
- Belief - August 30, 2017
- Spotlight On Writers – Mike Bell - August 19, 2017