Almost Home

Almost Home

In winter, a glowing fire in the hearth
bathed us in the light of high expectations.
this womb-like warmth in Mrs Jones's class
was almost home though without steam
rising from drying clothes.

A steady progress into our new world,
dazzled by treasures
of bright clean books, still smelling of printers ink.
Almost home but not quite: our books had
covers missing, fresh only from the jumble sale.

Learning by rote; a realm of letters.
Pictures of apples, umbrella and yacht.
A world in technicolour?
almost home but ours was a world of black and grey,
and no yacht.

Mrs Jones read and sang to us;
she rarely raised her voice, charmed us into learning.
we played with the beautiful dolls house
and a friendly brown cow,
which mooed when its tail was pulled.
Almost home but ours was filled with
raggy dolls and crying babies.

Tall windows hid the real world from our view.
We heard the farmyard noises and each afternoon
would cross the playground
to feed Mrs Mittens piglets with dinnertime scraps.
Almost home.