A parent-teacher meeting 13.01.2011

A parent-teacher meeting. 13.01.2011.



At six, the dark envelope

of a fleeing blackbird

folds itself down at the foot

of a beech hedge.

My bike wheels ticker

in the dusk-ink blue.



I pass the celebratory school room,

lit-up, as though

all its occupants were

tucking into something.



Around the computer desks,

shifting under the dark

bulk of parents,

shorn-headed boys

have been scrambled

for the night.



They sit small,

still wearing grey,

scrunch their fists

under the tables.



Their cheeks colour over

what has been glossed over,

what has come crashing

around their bright red ears.



Elephants tired of being

in the room have left,

have squeezed through

classroom doors,

have left them swinging.

'Too late to say it now'

thinks one lad.

Too late for the bright moment.



The bulky parents,

those who have finally

been drained of questions,

drained of care,

are loathe to leave.

Instead, at Nine,

the teachers rise

to leave them.