CHRISTINE ANN CLATWORTHY

The Poetry Of.
Christine Ann...........................................................
Clatworthy...........................................................

Papershops and Pumpkins

Autumn was the village green - evening mists, the sun an orange ball,
the magic sounds of a fairground - beckoning. Pennies, bulging in my pocket,
all those ghost train rides, merry-go-rounds and bags of soggy, half-cooked chips.

Autumn was my sycamore leaf painting, pasted on the classroom wall,
gathering rose hips and haws from bushes in the copse
to be displayed in pride of place on the ink-stained, nature table,

bronze and gold chrysanthemums in roadside allotments,
the whistling of a kettle on the blackleaded stove,
conkers tied on fraying bits of string - the coalman on his rounds again,

singing songs of harvest time at the run-down Baptist chapel,
baskets packed with dusky Russet apples, Mr Palmer's prize pumpkins,
fireworks on sale at the local papershop, chestnuts in spiky, green jackets,

the intoxicating smell of pinewood and leaves on some afternoon bonfire,
the surprise of frost-nipped air first thing in the morning,
muffins toasting on a fire - strains of 'penny for the guy' round every street corner.

Autumn meant progressing - going up a class,
starting a new school, another teacher, a different set of rules .
and a four-inch hem on my winter uniform.

Rising Five

How can I shelter, teach, protect this precious son of mine,
a chip off the old block - my chin, my lips, my nose,

for whom time is measured in seconds, minutes, hours -
not months, years, aeons. In 'how long till tea?'

Whose anger is shallow as a mountain burn
and turns to laughter at the sight of a clown,

whose happiness is measured in candy,
a chocolate cake and a cuddle,

who I know will run and skip,
barefoot, down the very same lane I walked to school.

Tell me how I can teach him to go further than me -
find out what's around the corner

and yet, having spurred him on to explore
uncharted territory,

how can I stop his unblinkered eyes from seeing
the desecrated body of a young boy .

slaughtered for the sake of a mobile phone -
laying in the bushes at the end of the road?

The square on the hypotenuse

He stares, blindly, through the window.
"Good morning, Mr. Reeves," say the children,

as it snows, white on white - the playground the trees
tries to get his mind in gear - picks up the chalk,

scrawls a sum - winces as it screeches on the board,
sets his teeth all on edge as it shatters in his fingers,

whispers echo round the newly whitewashed walls
say there must be some mistake -

sixteen minus nine isn't eight.
They don't quite understand . nor does he.

He fumbles with his collar,
taps on the table with an old, wooden ruler

he's had, man and boy, since his Baliol days,
rubs his forehead, struggles to recall

Pythagoras' theorem,
whilst they giggle and talk behind their hands.

He slouches at his table, white head bowed
and to crown it all,

she'd walked out this morning
after twenty four years.

Still clutching his ruler, he shuffles to the door,
in silence they watch as he closes it behind him,

stumbles out across the car-park - sleeves, half-rolled,
jacket slung on his shoulder - past his snow-covered car.

Glances back, for a moment, at the school
and still the snow falls, white on white,

on the playground and the trees.
Say the children, smiling, "Goodbye, Mr. Reeves."

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