Clyde fog
Nine o clock lines of yesterday's children,
small regiments
on a west coast morning
at the red stone school with the Clyde fog hanging,
it's heavy tendrils,thick and swirling
round and round and over them,
waiting for that bell to go
then it's into a cold classroom
packed full of scrubbed faces
at little desks under high windows
where the grey gloom pokes
a heavy finger
like that tall teacher instilling knowledge
while i sit waiting nervously,
impatiently
for that bell to go.
then it's outside to the concrete playground
surrounded by the black railings
where the bully boys wait
with hard faces
and fists are the same
if your five or fifty
they break teeth and bruise skin
like that leather belt that teacher uses
cut's flesh and soul
leaves something lurking
like the dank mist round the old schoolyard
cold silence,hung and waiting,
waiting for that bell to go
and i'm off home at three thirty
out that gate like a frightened pony
and over wasteland,down old park ways
swallowed whole in the great mouth
of a Clyde fog
in a childhood winter
long gone yet still waiting
strangely
for that bell to go........dave hobbs
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