Morning has broken.
School, rustling knees about the parquet floor,
Scabs and mud and the rub of patent shoes.
Togetherness- all gathered as one before the time we begun to question the world.
The headmaster, with Welsh melodic tones, takes to the podium,
like others I’ve seen, in church.
A place I only frequent for weddings and christenings- no funerals yet.
He rests his foot on the wooden plinth and rocks, cradling the bookrest as he speaks.
He is ardent about his theme, an ardour I’ll remember all the days of my life.
Singing: all together. Loud: not sure if anyone can hear me- not sure
If it is my own voice or the multitudes of others.
I did not grow to be a Christian, but what I feel when I hear that piano intro
Must be at least akin to those of a believer
Standing anew every morning beneath the stained-glass window.