A raindrop finds a river,
finds the sea, becomes
the water in this school
becomes blood in our bodies.
As a child my father told me
the story about hitting
his English teacher, jumping out of
the window and running away to sea.
I watch the rain through the window,
whilst teaching another frosty class;
"The Road Not Taken"
for the umpteenth bloody time.
Somewhere an ancient sailor
is splicing rope and telling yarns
of thrilling journeys to the shadowy
ghosts of children, longing to learn.
If you have any comments on this poem, David Morgan would be