The Exam (you may turn your papers over now).

Louise Stothard.
　
The Exam. (You may turn your papers over now).

Forlorn excitement follows us
all to the marked down rows.
It is May, 1967
and the desks are warmwood,
giving off varnish.
Faces give off 'I will fail'
exchanges.
In the heat of these moments
we will give off adrenalin
like love for two segmented hours,
Either;
Or.
It will be written in stone.

Stewarding the aisles,
passing grave as an ocean liner
down the Suez canal,
Miss Joynson's
Geographical credentials
have finally
come into their own.
She will sweep back and forth
at five knots per hour
for the duration.

The Quink engravings
of S.A. luvs Peter
are also scrawled across the
Corn and Pig Belt;
Saskatchewan, Manitoba, Alberta.
The Great Lakes are
mnemonically inked
onto someone's wrist;
(Some Men Have Even Jumped Over).
The roughwood patches
of desklids
are now soaked
in history,
in an ancient craft.
They'll mark our particular toil,
our studied slant
on the Corn Laws.

When we rise, doomladen, from desks,
they'll have been our talismans too,
reminding us of glorious possibilities.
The papers, downfaced,
hinting faintly in back-to-front
language are white as sheets,
bearing promises.
The A4 surprise packages
are at least of equal merit,
equal perplexity to one and all.
That's the whole thing.

We'll hover, for those first flightless seconds
as Kestrels over prey freshly
swooped upon. Dive.
We'll digest the contents later.
The second hand leads us on.
The clock winks its hour markers
at us, always beating us to it.
Cometh the hour, cometh the man.

The heads in front are all primed,
ready to go off in a slow-timed manner.
Something, some force will finish
off their work to the good.
You may be sure of that.

Miss Henthorne's dark beehive
is more lustrous than ever
on this occasion.
Her Angora and pearls
her folded arms,
her History,
her rebellious thoughts
her affections and yours
are one.
Her intent and love,
her passing fancy
are all passing you the nod.
She knows about you.
That's the main thing.

Across the Canal that's wide enough
for thoughts not to leap over,
your parallel pupil's
shirt cuffs are crisp,
buttoned down,
giving nothing away.
You see her ingenuity too,
peripherally,
because it's a well-known fact
that she shines at Maths.
That's the whole thing.
　
Two desks ahead of her
and hallowed there
where she is ensconced
is the golden girl you love.
You may stray away
to longing for her,
and the devil-may-care
flick of her tawny hair,
hair that's shining now
with the brilliance
of at least ten colours;
it won't help you.

You may squint at the upside-down Cyrillic
of the questions
Brenda Munford is hunched over
so lovingly
as much as you like.
It won't help you.

You may turn your papers over now.