Green Glass Beads Read online

  I curled my fists,

  Tried not to think of friendship,

  Or whispered secrets,

  Or games for two players.

  But the empty seat beside me

  Shimmered with need

  And my loneliness dragged her like a magnet.

  As she sat down

  I caught the musty smell of old forests,

  Noticed the threads that dangled

  At her thin wrists,

  The purple stitches that circled

  Her swan’s neck.

  Yet I loved her quietness,

  The way she held her pencil

  Like a feather,

  The swooping curves of her name,

  The dreaminess of her cold eyes.

  At night, I still wonder

  Where she sleeps,

  If she sleeps,

  And what Miss Moon will say

  To her tattered parents

  On Open Day.

  Clare Bevan

  Mrs Mackenzie

  Mrs Mackenzie’s quite stern.

  She says, ‘You’re not here to have fun,

  You’re here to learn,’

  When I mess about in class.

  And in the corridor, if I run

  When she’s passing by, she shouts

  ‘Slow down! You’re not in a race!’

  Or ‘More haste, less speed!’ –

  Whatever that means.

  I never used to like Mrs Mackenzie much.

  But the other day

  When my dog died

  And she saw me crying

  She said ‘Dogs are such good friends,

  Aren’t they?’

  And she let me stay

  In the classroom with her at breaktime

  When all the other children went outside

  To play.

  Mrs Mackenzie’s OK.

  Gillian Floyd

  The Day After

  I went to school

  the day after Dad died.

  Teacher knew all about it.

  She put a hand on my shoulder

  and sighed.

  In class things seemed much the same

  although I was strangely subdued.

  Breaktime was the same too,

  and at lunchtime the usual crew

  played up the dinner supervisors.

  Fraggle was downright rude.

  I joined in the football game

  but volunteered to go in goal.

  That meant I was left almost alone,

  could think things over on my own.

  For once I let the others shout

  and race and roll.

  First thing that afternoon,

  everyone in his and her place

  for silent reading,

  I suddenly felt hot tears streaming

  down my face.

  Salty tears splashed down

  and soaked into my book’s page.

  Sobs heaved in my chest.

  Teacher peered over her half specs

  and said quietly, ‘Ben, come here.’

  I stood at her desk crying. At my age!

  I felt like an idiot, a clown.

  ‘Don’t feel ashamed,’ teacher said.

  ‘It’s only right to weep.

  Here, have these tissues to keep.’

  I dabbed my eyes, then looked around.

  Bowed into books, every head.

  ‘Have a cold drink.

  Go with James. He’ll understand.’

  In the boys’ cloaks I drank deeply

  then slowly wiped my mouth

  on the back of my hand.

  Sheepishly I said, ‘My dad died.’

  ‘I know,’ said James.

  ‘We’d best get back to class. Come on.’

  Walking down the corridor I thought of Dad . . . gone.

  In class no one sniggered,

  they were busy getting changed for games.

  No one noticed I’d cried.

  All day I felt sad, sad.

  After school I reached my street,

  clutching the tissues, dragging my feet.

  Mum was there in our house

  but no Dad,

  no Dad.

  Wes Magee

  Squirrels and Motorbikes

  Today we went out of school

  Down the lane

  Into the spinney

  To watch squirrels

  We saw lots of grey squirrels

  Scuttling through the trees

  Searching for nuts on the ground

  Some as still as statues

  We all took notes

  Made sketches

  And asked questions

  Back in school

  We drew our squirrels

  Some sitting like

  Silver grey coffee-pots

  While others paddled acorns

  Into the soft green grass

  Some still listening with their tufty ears

  Others with their feather-duster tails waving

  Everyone drew a squirrel picture – except

  George, who drew a motorbike

  But then, he always does.

  David Whitehead

  The Fairy School under the Loch

  (Sgoil a’Morghain, Barra, The Hebrides)

  The wind sings its gusty song.

  The bell rings its rusty ring.

  The underwater fairy children

  dive and swim through school gates.

  They do not get wet.

  The waves flick their flashing spray.

  A school of fish wriggles its scaly way.

  The underwater fairy children

  learn their liquidy lessons.

  Their reading books are always dry.

  The seals straighten in a stretchy mass.

  Teresa the Teacher flits and floats from class to class.

  The underwater fairy children

  count, play, sing and recite,

  their clothes not in the least bit damp.

  The rocks creak in their cracking skin.

  A fairy boat drifts into a loch of time.

  The underwater fairy children

  lived, learned and left this life –

  their salty stories now dry as their cracked wings.

  John Rice

  We Lost Our Teacher to the Sea

  We’ve been at the seaside all day

  collecting shells, drawing the view

  doing science in the rockpools.

  Our teacher went to find the sea’s edge,

  and stayed there, he’s sitting on a rock

  he won’t come back.

  His glasses are frosted over with salt

  his beard has knotted into seaweed

  his black suit is covered in limpets.

  He’s staring into the wild water

  singing to the waves

  sharing a joke with the herring gulls.

  We sent out the coastguard

  the lifeboat and the orange helicopter

  he told them all to go away.

  We’re getting on the bus with our sticks of rock

  our presents for Mum

  and our jotters and pencils.

  He’s still out there as we leave

  arms outstretched to the pale blue sky

  the tide racing towards him.

  His slippery fishtail flaps

  with a flick and a shimmer he’s gone

  back to the sea forever.

  David Harmer

  Ms Fleur

  Though she doesn’t know it,

  Our teacher is a mermaid.

  We built her from Skegness sand,

  Me and Emily,

  Sculpted a swishing tail,

  Curved scales with the edge of our hands,

  And arranged her driftwood hair in a spiky halo.

  All day we piled the sand and patted her.

  Though she didn’t see it,

  We wrote her name, Ms Fleur,

  In our biggest le