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An academic, a researcher and writer.

Tuesday, 28 February 2012

Poem on a teacher

I knew a teacher once
With words as soft
As moths on summer screens:
Brittle-bright-and
Cruel was not his style.
As others barked,
His whispers touched the dark,
Inside your soul
And seemed to echo there.
The way was sure.
He always took the time:
Refused the rush
Of world reports for poems-
And pushed aside
The weight of dusty tomes
To scratch his nose
And passed around the mints.
He seemed alive.
You couldn’t put him on.
He’d take a book
And make it yours and his
In magic ways
That made your breath come quick.
His wink was slight,
The eyes were bright and clear,
A hush of blues.
You’d watch the pause of smile,
A patient blink
That let the question hang.
Grimmett and Mackinnon

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