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Playtime

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  • Playtime




    Playtime, that twice a day interlude
    Escape from the formal classroom
    Sounds of the girls skipping games
    Drifting though the open window
    The same old rhymes, handed down
    by mothers and grandmothers
    ~
    I’ll tell ma when I get home
    The boys won’t leave the girls alone
    They pull our hair and break our bones
    I’ll tell ma when I get home
    ~
    Miss Crawford smiled
    Children, her children
    The yearly conveyor belt
    Which renewed the flock
    Long before teenage uncertainty
    Sullied their innocence
    ~
    She crossed to the window
    Scooting Tommy on his fifth lap
    An eight year old torpedo
    Trailing an errant shoelace
    Never to study at Ruskin college
    But destined for happiness on a red tractor
    ~
    Not long now, a month or two
    Before the march of progress
    Trampled the village school
    Neglected in the ruptured tarmac
    by the flaking paintwork
    and rusted window latches
    ~
    The town school new, grotesque
    A sterile box of plastic and glass
    Miss Crawford retired to her homely cottage
    Where, on a soft summer day
    In her minds eye, she could see the old school
    And hear the ghosts of the children at play

    I’ll tell ma when I get home
    The boys won’t leave the girls alone
    They pull our hair and break our bones
    I’ll tell ma when I get home

  • #2
    Absolutely LOVE it! Publish.

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