The Village School
I hear the bell that generations have heard before
And the voices cease their joyful chattering. Outdoor
Play areas become empty as reluctantly,
Little souls drift back to the confines of their classrooms.
The deserted playground: discarded toys, disrupted
Sand, and kitchen ware strewn around. Echoes of playful
Scenes are all that remain of the rumbustious times.
Within the rooms, teachers and their helpers,
Tower above recalcitrant children,
Then stooping to listen, calm is restored.
Order comes from the chaos, but where has
The greater learning taken place?
Crossed legs beneath tables, anxious
Faces peer obliquely at numbers;
Words become meaning, fingers trace
Across page, whilst eyes flit between
Word and image, the more knowledge
To absorb by the sponge-brained child.
At end of day, chatting parents, grandparents
And others, wait patiently, whilst children don
Coats. Teachers lead out their class, to offer snippets
Of the day or listen to plaintive welcomes.
Returning to empty classrooms, the sighing
Staff commence preparations for another
Day when they endeavour to shape the futures
Of those in their care.
Dave Urmston c 2017
