Before home time, every day
That sleepy, can't write any more
Time of day
Low sun picks out chalk dust
Suspended in air, over kids,
who only want to meander
Across the park,
For tea and Thunderbirds.

Most kids.  Not all kids. Not us kids.
We were Mr Gardener's kids
And the slowest of us perked
Eyes bright, legs crossed
At the end of the day
Warm with anticipation
Home was not pressing
On our nine year old minds

Unexpected Mr Gardener
Generous, mild and
gentle sharer of knowledge
balancing on the brink
of retirement
who, at the Christmas concert,
awed us, floored us
with soaring solo Emmanuels.

Before the bell we gathered round
He held the book aloft and cracked open our little worlds
With Beowulf
No diluted, convoluted picture story form
This was all ****** battles,
dragons, a severed arm.
A teacher transformed
Animated, passionate, Mr Gardener
Held us all in thrall

We went home through the cloakroom
Summer air heavy with the smell
of plimsolls and sour milk
Minds alive and buzzing with heroes and monsters
Chasing sword play across the park
I thought, imagine you can have all that
with just words.