ramblings and things

924,198 poems read

Ron Szreter, 1956 - 59

His name was hard to say.
Not too bad to spell.
His arm was in a sling.
His face had been to hell.
They said he been a prisoner
Tortured during the war,
Just rumour and speculation,
We never learned more.
He could quieten a room
With that penetrating stare
Very quickly establishing
His real presence there.
He was our history teacher
Demanding only that we work
To the best of our ability.
He couldn't stand a shirk.
He gave his marks grudgingly
Never at all easily earned
He wanted proof of understanding
Not that facts had just been learned.
My last day at school
He shook me by the hand
Treated me as though
I had now become a man.
I remember saying thank you
Then going on my way
Too much was going on
That particular day:
But I wonder where he went to,
Were any of the rumours true?
I'm sure he was successful
Whatever he chose to do.










Comment On This Poem --- Vote for this poem
Ron Szreter, 1956 - 59