Spiralling trees and winter is a reminder
to the seasons and those brushy rains
coming and going with the tepid sun
masquerading as the good friend.
Classes over, the college looked
like a ruminating ghost with dry flowers
speckled by dust. Even the Principal was missing
the gardener played his tantrums with dope seething
into his head, doing a catwalk of dangerous intent.
We laughed in the college grounds as the football
danced around hairy, kicking legs. College.
The rains came splashing among corridors of iron hope
and school was delinquent, delirious with the Irish Brothers teaching
us a thing or two about caning. We loved them as they played our cricket
and our football, taught us Shakespeare, took us to the theatre to learn the act
of acting.When Murphy died, the literature within me spilled on to drifting winds unknown, or when he left.
Now when winter makes appearance the school bell clangs
and, in his cassock stands Brother O’Neill.