In purple checked dresses we are confronted
Behind a piano sits ‘Miss Creak’ head of house
She has one bad eye, unfixable from childhood
But plays beautifully perched on an oakwood
And fabric stool. This is our secondary school.

On the wall above the piano is a framed print
‘Madonna of the Meadows’ by the artist Bellini
I pushed a drawing of a couple intertwining
Under ‘her’ door knowing she never would have
But a boy may have felt affection for ‘that’ affliction.

Here we all ate meals, did fashion shows and sang
I was glad my dress was purple not orange or red
Went better with my blue eyes and blonde hair
The rest of the school diveded into coloured checks
To represent Shakespearean female characters.

Just opened in Wandsworth a new comprehensive
Serving all abilities, behaviours and nationalities
Cordelia, Beatrice, Juliet, Katharine,
Portia, Rosalind, Olivia, Viola a rather unsuitable
Vision for such an uptake of adolescent froth.

Miss Creak was, kindly, I wish I had always been.

The lovely trees of autumn shine,
in fields of majestic glory;
It's heaven's way to give the world,
a pure and glowing story.

While whistling winds intrude upon,
the corners of our minds;
And the gentle breezes blow afar,
each colored leaf aligns.

As the trembling branches of the trees,
shed all their crinkled leaves;
The bounty of a sacred world,
brings nature to its knees.

The northern winds blow heavily,
with frost and chilly air;
And soon the days of winter rise,
as snowflakes dance in pairs.

Remember how the whistles sing,
a tune of changing seasons;
From God above Who tells the tale,
with faith, and hope and reason.

Poetry
without
heart
is
just
.            
.
.
.
some
words
on
a
page.