My first school in uniform.

Ink well and quill charged.
Chin up back straight.
Don’t slouch came the
Load monotone voice.
She there with her bun 
Held in place with a needle,
Scorn etched permanent
On her ageing face.
Chalk marred hands,
Cracks within, brandishing

Cane and chalk.
Tapping out on the board.
I remember the look, haggard
Mixed with anger.
Her false teeth grinding,
Making my every bone chatter.
Dressed in black cloth,
Like a rendered widow 
Parted from her work.
Apart, with no feet in the real world… 

© munster 2018
Views: 161
no comments or critique sought.
Flag Content