School - a poem by Chris Penfold Brown

Yes I was sent but didn’t want to go,

Walking a mile through the rain and snow,

Let me go to work please Mum, I would say,

Or maybe in my bed, I’d prefer to lay.

Out in the playground was the worst place,

The  bitterness and hatred I could taste,

I never understood why they were so bad,

All day long they would make me feel sad.

I was the only Gypsy there at the time,

They wanted my soul,  but I would never sign,

All dressed up in their grey and blue,

How I wished I’d had a uniform too!

But in a red woollen suit I was sent,

Every stitch knitted with love, but never lent,

I would stand out like a sore thumb,

Oh! I wished more Gypsies would come.

They stood there in the playground,

Just watching, never making a sound,

Could have stopped it at anytime,

But their hearts were never that kind.

They let those children make up the song,

All the teachers knew it was wrong,

A blind eye and a turned back,

Then and now, that is a fact.

But I thank them now, my folks so wise,

Uniform I could have had, but they saw the prize,

The prize was to be mine, the prize of life,

Because now its full, and without any strife.

By Chris Penfold Brown

(Stock photo by Jonathan Taylor on Unsplash)