One class at a time they let us out – Miss Reilly and Mr McCormack

whose hand we had seen her holding, and Mr Murphy whose wife she became.

In the days when grown-ups were still in charge they always knew

what we needed: fresh air and a space to let it off as steam.

Drawing blood on a regular basis, the flint in the walls was lethal,

salvaged from an abbey whose ruins loured above us.

To play the game of Chariots you only needed a friend –

your arms locked behind you, you’d skim the corners like Ben Hur.

The first shrill of the whistle stopped us all in our tracks.

The second shuffled us into Years. Any time we stepped out of line

was like a venial sin. The mortal sins were dealt with later.

David Cooke has published four collections, including A Slow Blues: New and Selected Poems (High Windows Press) and A Murmuration (Two Windows Press).