Walking the Plank

In a breeze worried meadow, one warm bitter morning
Through carnivorous grasses, sharpened by sun
Rush tear spattered glasses and dirt streaky fingers
Counting each sorrowful step, one by one.

There advances a boy, whose frown and frustration
Are crumpled up tight like the book in his hand
His progress is only slowed by persistently
Digging the toe of his shoe in the sand

Awaiting the child, by the stool in the kitchen
Where hen pecks and straw dust raise spiralling motes
The tutor is standing, though crooked, to watch him
Her age-brittle fingers ply age-brittle notes

‘Too stupid to learn and too heavy a burden’
They said of the boy, and a sentence was passed
‘If he wants to stay schooling he’d better get smart
Get smart and by God, he’d best do it fast’

As summer drew over her thick sultry blanket
The schoolyard lay quiet, the bees buzzed anew
The teacher, who’s calling was everyday with her
Decided ‘one more’; what else could she do?

So reluctantly, mother’s insistence still stinging
He stamped from the rubble of home, storming rage
And made for the dry witch’s hut in the field
Tumbling down, dusty, destroyed by old age

And he hunched as she coaxed and guided and led;
He glared through the pane to the river’s far bank
Watching the others build boats, raise the ensign,
Sensing perhaps it was he on the plank

So, resolved he became, to finish these lessons
To listen to teacher as well as he could
And soon, no more tears, just the edge of a smile
And a soft burst of pride when she said, simply,’ good’.