A School Visit in Lent
(Brunswick, Melbourne)
We walk through the schoolyard tentatively.
At 3.45 almost all have departed,
bouncing beside their smiling mothers
in the afternoon sunshine. Iım to wait
for the half hour or so of an interview.
This is Our Lady Help of Christians.
My wife the speech therapist goes inside.
She is Jewish (as was Their Lady,
that made-over Jewish momma),
I agnostic, looking forward to Easter eggs.
A grey-haired male snooping round the asphalt,
admiring the young bodies (look at me, Mumı)
taking their last fling at the jungle gym,
I half expect to be accosted
(take your paedophilia elsewhereı).
Instead of nuns these days itıs staff in civvies;
one, solving a whereıs my schoolbag?ı problem,
is a pocket Venus with a dazzling smile
Iım sure my dull one almost meets her eye
but she swerves away from connection.
Where can I sit with my book? There are
benches in shadow and benches in sun
and none have backs for me to lean on.
All are for little bums and short legs.
The bench for me commands the best view.
Early autumn: English trees above
ready for their foliage to pale and fall.
Knees under my chin, I open my book,
Forster, Howards End, dear old Edwardian.
A little girl glides past me on a scooter.
Her solemn grace has a timeless air.
Her future ought to be good, schooling
fairly traditional, moral certainties on tap,
This old suburb, once depressed, prospers.
The boy inside, my wifeıs concern, who knows?
Before I can reconnect with Forster,
back comes my wife. A short interview.
Oh the teacher, male, totally
dispassionate. He didnıt want to hear.
Iıve worked with this boy for years,
heıs lovely, and just made school captain!
But this one teacher isnıt on his side.
As for the school, in thereıs a big notice-board,
covered in black tissue, with the giant words
CHRIST IS DEAD. Well, Easter Sunday theyıll let
Him live again, but it isnıt Friday yet.ı
These Catholics. We walk to the gate,
set in its high wire mesh. Itıs locked already.
The parish church we skirt looms dark and locked.
Come Sunday, the routine Passion past,
may glory and a hope for help return.
Max Richards / Wednesday 23 March 2005
[off tomorrow to my native NZ for three weeks.
Keep up the conversations and 100+ snaps meantime...]
|