We march them, linked together, into the railway tunnel
abandoned and curving in a manner so efficient
as to block out light
to deny the day
No torches permitted
Just a stick to tap the way
We inch forward
Treading on our nerves
In a Welsh tunnel where Tottenham
are still not very good
Neither are Arsenal, Man U or Liverpool for that matter
The boys work their way through the whole Premier League
A cacophony of adolescent male voices
Employing bravado and thuggish chants to mask their fear
The girls silently trudge
one foot in front of the other
In this dark that never ends
Fish-fingers and chips, a scoop of peas and a chocolate sponge pudding bathed in sauce. A cup of tea. In the crowded surrounds of the dining hall.
Our last supper before heading out into this obscurity.
We wish for the light
Our imaginations running wild
With a thousand spooky possibilities
Of what may be encircling us
Of eight-limbed friends hanging above us
In the eerie dark
Tomorrow, I’ll enjoy a lie in. Ensconced in my duvet
In my own bed. The dog will sleep next to me, as will the cat.
Safe, secure, comfortable. Not here.
It’s surreal
The endless march goes on and on
Our discomfort is palpable
but on this, the final day,
something is different
Today
No one moans
There is no crying
Not a hint of a panic attack
We are all at least a little afraid
But we handle it
Last week we conjugated verbs
In the poorly lit confines of a classroom
When they were just pupils
Some active
Some nervous
Some shy
Some fearful
Some super intelligent
Some less so
Some brave
All with varying degrees of confidence
Some uncomfortable in their own skin.
I was simply their teacher.
These are the shadows of who we are now.
In 5 short days
They have learnt to trust us,
more importantly, to trust themselves.
5 short days in Wales
That’s how far we’ve all come.
Poetry for Dullards 