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
Sang 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
Neglect in the ruptured tarmac
in the flaking paintwork
and rusting 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
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