THE GIFT

 We were three weeks

Into term, Sheila,

When you came

Through the classroom door;

Forty-four children

Bent over books,

Copying Roethke’s

‘The Lost Son’.


You wrote your

First poem on the ‘Moses’

Of Michelangelo.


Words cut like stone.


I taught you Greek

But your painting of

‘The Essence of the Rose’

Was pure Platonic form.


You drew the masks

Of Comedy and Tragedy

In perfect harmony.


Having seen neither;

So Socrates was right.


Those who have the Spirit’s gift

Will one day find the light.

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