Timothy Kendall Poet Prose

Schoolboy Error

He sat on the pathway edge,
crossed legged at the feet.
Donned in green moleskin trousers and yellow oilskin, felt pork pie hat and tilting back from the band a pheasant feather, 
multicoloured, 
catching the sporadic sunlight.
Thin lipped and with a smile that exposed teeth so uniform that if he had done a handstand you would swear the mouth had not moved.
I imagined the canines and molars worn to evenness by the gnawing of rope and net whilst Captaining trawlers that endured weeks at sea, but more likely a University lecturer, Geography teacher.
Like Shearer at the Gallowgate end I held my arm aloft exposing the too tightly pulled wristband allowing entry to the festivities.
Heartily and simultaneously with him “Morning” and his smile extended further.
Drinks were ordered and it was several minutes before I became aware of my inappropriate footwear as wood chippings bit my toes.
Forgetfulness was becoming an ever increasing trait. 
Oofos flip flops were not going to cut it.
A Met Office amber warning, dancing and the threat of a drifting mosh pit required a sturdier approach and a journey back out.
“So soon?” he asked ruefully.
I pointed to the uncovered feet, his brow concertinaed, he stood, smaller than expected, deceived by his outstretched legs.
Arms raised, fully extended, he planted his hands upon my shoulders and with quiet authority 
“When your Father told you that things would get easier, that you hadn’t to worry, that you will get wiser. You didn’t listen did you?”
He bellowed and I joined him. 
He sent me away.
Uplifted.
When I returned he had been replaced, voluntary shift complete. Sat in his place a young man, a boy barely eighteen I guessed. 
I left my arm by its side and tugged at the sleeve, we nodded.
Later that day I spied the man, sat on a tree trunk bench. 
Pork pie hat with pheasant feather, crossed legged at the feet but held to his thin lips, a dark beer, a mild, a stout or a porter.
Undoubtedly a Geography teacher.

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