A Crowd of Shades

They are whispering,

just out of earshot.

The boys you played football

with between staked saplings

where it was best

to miss by a mile,

rather than hit a post.

The girls you kissed

behind a portakabin

classroom, their summer

dresses short,

but innocent of temptation.

The first teacher

you can remember,

Mr Poll - brown as a coffee bean -

no-one called him names,

you never thought of it.

Other teachers flicker

like super-8 footage;

Miss Clydesdale,

anything but horsey,

married a RAF Officer.

Mrs Beveridge, fierce,

fifty, fought to keep

the school studying

spelling and doing sport,

though she looked like Joan Sims.

They are whispering,

a crowd of shades,

distant, but growing closer.

you’ll hear them soon.

Do you wonder

what they’ll say?