Unschooled
by Barbara Whittaker
A shining handful of years
breathlessly welcomes the novel restraint
of rigid school shoe leather
Twirling, parading on feet unacquainted with
imminent calls to attention
is assessed in inches of blue gabardine
all the time dancing through measuring tapes,
buttons, elastic and pins
Smalt saucers tire at the calendar
drag of days weighted by journey to come
succumbs for a time to afternoon’s call
as sleep softly overtakes dreams
So marks the end of a childhood
silently stolen – mutely replaced,
new shoes buckled awry on her feet
no words to define the offences
Evidence finds its own voice
Mother’s cries, child
in a doorway
hushed
She looks okay. I’m sure she’s okay.
Quiet now.
So flows the water of the past and
school must be the bridge
Positioned in class
no first day tears to blur the will
of one already in adulthood –
only disdain for squalling classmates clinging
to mothers who know nothing.
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