You wanted to spare the blushes of the little boy
Who had ordered the book with the explicit cover
So you called him into the privacy of the corridor:
"Dyra fo yn dy ***"* you suggested gently
Handing over a book warm to the touch,
Wrapped in sellophane (as if to try to contain its power).

I've never forgotten that one-act play, nor its elements:
The subject compressed within its covers,
Your understanding and thoughtfulness,
The bewilderment of my ten year old self,
The discernment of Sbondonics**
But mostly the Hellfire unleashed by Little Boy fifty years prior.