me six, you still seven

me six, you still seven

 

as the country shivered

through another winter

not quite discontent –

but undoubtedly bitter

for the woman from grantham

bringing a savage blizzard from the east

 

the first girl

i ever held hands with,

was electrocuted in her bath

 

when all but one

returned to school

after an unsuspecting christmas,

death waited soundlessly

within the frost

and the frozen pipes

 

the specifics won’t take shape;

yet i remember

how a school of less than thirty-nine

grieved:

 

how the colour leached from our paintings

 

how our end-of-term decorations

swiftly wounded us

 

how we caught moments

from behind the brave mask

of the teaching staff,

one laying a hand on the arm of another

in a corridor with no lights        

 

another dragging away tears

with a white-knuckled fist

rummaging a desk

for something they didn’t need

 

 

that first time we had held hands

was in the lunch queue

you took charge –

me five,

you seven –

 

all our food was cold that day

that day after christmas,

they told us you’d gone to heaven

 

when spring bent bluebells

grown-ups talked inflation,

then our school milk went

like you did;

without a goodbye

 

for a time then

we had a secret;

me six,

you still seven,

waiting patiently for me

most days in the lunch queue

 

we no longer held hands

though you were often there;

misty and just out of reach

 

by the time i was six-and-a-half,

bringing up the rear

of a school summer photograph,

a decade of greed had begun

beyond the playground

 

no one spoke your name anymore,

and i spent more time

searching the lunch queue,

than finding you

 

you’d gone

and with you,

keeping you warm and safe along the way –

the light from my eyes