Posted by Admin on 1 February 2009, 12:00 am
My mother told of schooldays spent
unhappily beneath the eye
of one who did not ‘spare the rod’ –
recounted being made to stand
with slates held high above her head
for trivial offences frowned
upon by him who occupied
the senior master’s desk.
My aunt displayed her prizes won
for conduct which her character
would need no martinet to hold
submissive to his rule.
But that was years ago
when Osborne housed an aged Queen;
and now the ancient school is doomed,
its steepled belfry long since gone,
and all its mellow fabric falls
apace, to leave no relic there
of those lean times when rudiments
alone were taught, and pupils then
equipped for naught but servitude –
their minds’ parameters close set,
exclusive of aesthetic joys
which add so much to life and take
an earthbound soul beyond the sky.
T. C. Hudson
© T. C. Hudson.
Village
Parish Council