They tell me Wayne, Stacey
and other bolshie bairns are waiting
for me in the teaching hut.
The class, named after a range of hills,
(so they would feel special)
kicks at the floor, chew gum.
Sean wobbles against the wall.
At least one teacher’s been tumbled down scree.
We face each other in a horseshoe of chairs,
no jotters or pens. They stare in puzzled quiet.
In June their music teacher tells me
‘You’re doing something right.
I’m giving them guitars again.’