Posted by Admin on 25 January 2009, 12:00 am
We pass the time of day,
but she, I’m sure, does not
recall that, over half
a century ago, a boy
of thirteen then, I sat
submissive to her will –
an eager boy, whose skills
with brush and pen she tried
to foster, offering
a monthly prize.
But I remember well
the happy hours I spent
absorbing what were deemed
the basic requisites
of education – those
disjointed fragments which
in total made no whole.
A teacher with advanced
ideas, she sometimes chafed
when gubernation, out
of date, reviewed her work
with disapproving eye,
imposing censorship
that we, brash partisans,
outspokenly condemned.
Today, white-haired and spry,
my face and facile pen
alike forgotten, she
now fails to recognise
a former pupil – which,
though chastening, should not
surprise at all; for in
the album of her mind
the photographs she sees
identify with youth
alone.
T. C. Hudson
© T. C. Hudson.
Village
Parish Council