Gold Stars (Poetry)
02nd December 2012
I left them all back in 1967
in the classroom — row on row of quiet potential
dutifully disciplined amidst the floating swirls of chalkdust caught
on slanting sunlight hazed with dizzy schoolgirl fantasies...
Doubtless we all had our dreams — ambitions lurked underneath our
correctly-buttoned navy blue
and we’d been promised all the world was out there — just waiting
while we blossomed — got our bearings — found our coltish feet
then — qualified for life — we’d go our various ways — our good-girl
programming complete.
I never knew what happened to them — the clever Jacquelines and
brainy Lindas — those superior arty Valeries and sporty Rachels —
the ‘Yes Miss’ Annes and simpering Sues who bent their heads and
studied Shakespeare — flicked their sleek fat ponytails and learned the
names of former British Colonies as they fidgeted in those hushed rooms
along with average me.
Our teachers mostly gone to God by now — and some unlucky pupils too who
didn’t make it through to planned retirement —
cottaged Devon-deep in some quaint obscurity
neighboured by the sea.
From time to time I’ve stumbled on the odd obituary and felt
the wash of sadness — experienced that cold tide touch a nerve
when putting names to faces — all the while wondering how life
had treated them once the sixties show was over and reality
kicked in
those gold stars were just paper after all.
in the classroom — row on row of quiet potential
dutifully disciplined amidst the floating swirls of chalkdust caught
on slanting sunlight hazed with dizzy schoolgirl fantasies...
Doubtless we all had our dreams — ambitions lurked underneath our
correctly-buttoned navy blue
and we’d been promised all the world was out there — just waiting
while we blossomed — got our bearings — found our coltish feet
then — qualified for life — we’d go our various ways — our good-girl
programming complete.
I never knew what happened to them — the clever Jacquelines and
brainy Lindas — those superior arty Valeries and sporty Rachels —
the ‘Yes Miss’ Annes and simpering Sues who bent their heads and
studied Shakespeare — flicked their sleek fat ponytails and learned the
names of former British Colonies as they fidgeted in those hushed rooms
along with average me.
Our teachers mostly gone to God by now — and some unlucky pupils too who
didn’t make it through to planned retirement —
cottaged Devon-deep in some quaint obscurity
neighboured by the sea.
From time to time I’ve stumbled on the odd obituary and felt
the wash of sadness — experienced that cold tide touch a nerve
when putting names to faces — all the while wondering how life
had treated them once the sixties show was over and reality
kicked in
those gold stars were just paper after all.