Her  First Love.

Before  the fear  for the class room is gone,

The first  day of entry into the school begins,

Her  lure  for  the new uniforms  and  slate

Multiplies: for  in those days, slates ,pencils

And blades, the box were  the necessity

Of  a perfect class syndrome. The  blade,

The  sharpener in the geometry box, she  abhors,

For  Maths  was tough  to comprehend.

The  blade  that  shines, sharpens the pencil,

Draws  the  sketches, she folds meticulously

In the  slated  wrapper.  Now comes  her love

For the Rhymes and  English class.

“Baa  Baa  black sheep, have you any wool?”

Comes in  rich lore to  her  mouth’s brim.

The  blade lurks into nothing, the rhyme

Redoubles  with  vigour and trimmer.