Sitting at a stained desk
superfluous space for ink wells,
groove to place my pencil
I dream of rockets, submarines and spells
as the sixties swing by
out of sight.
In the lowest English sets,
there’s no dyslexia
only dumb slackness, scribbling misspelt words;
scrapped, I scarcely scrape a pass.
What bare faced side I display
attempting to write a poem
when the system says
You ****.
I went to school early because the local authority needed to make up numbers. I was probably dyslexic as well. I wrote this for the staff of a school I work in, and it's interesting that it engaged teachers, assistants and site staff.
