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Poem	Composed of chalk dust, Pencil shavings and The sharp odour Of stale urine; It meets me now and then Creeping down a creosoted corridor Or waiting to be banged With the dust from piles of books On top of a cupboard. The double desks heeled with iron Having long been replaced; The steel-nibbed pens and Ink watered to pale grey Gone too: the cane’s bamboo bite Has nothing left to bite on And David’s psalms Must learn each other. But it’s there Ready to spring out Like a coiled snake skin still envenomed After years by a suburban hearth. It was fifteen years ago But I still remember Smigger, Our greying old headmaster In his spats and striped trousers, The last in our town to wear them, And his northern accent, Heavy as Sunday. "Now then you lads, I’m not having this Or I’ll tan you all," He’d bawl at a mill-hand’s boy For drawing cunts on the lavatory wall. Old Holmes, too, his yellow teeth And hair all over the place, One hand trembling with shell shock. The other with rage, one foot lame And brain half daft, Ready to belt you For moving an eye. The boys were always Belching and farting And tormenting me for my Long words and soft voice And they do still When I sense that stink In my nostrils.
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