11.47AM ON THURSDAY
It’s a used-white-shoe Thursday afternoon
Naked trees reach out like upside down
roots in all directions
Houses line the streets, a patchwork of tarmac
and gravel
Too-sharp triangles, too-perfect squares, too-bright white
Hush
The children are learning
Round-backed groups huddle over the latest laptop
Pens move as fast as thoughts in their brain
Fidget fidget
fidget
The room never quite still
Look
The quad usually bursting at the seams is empty
waiting
forty-three minutes to go
Dirty-black concrete, like a toddler with a pencil, is all that’s
left behind
Three birds hop their way from one empty packet of chips
to the next, scavenging any hidden crumbs
Look
The field once speckled with rugby boots
a carpet of green-yellow-green just vacuumed
Rugby posts stand with their heads held high, battling the trauma of
abandonment
A size ten navy hoodie lies
aimlessly, waiting
Look
You can see the fans on age-stained roofs whirr
moving so fast they appear still
Eight sit in a pattern
of disarray, spin
spin spin
Look
You can see the cars meander by
Not rush hour nor empty
A constant stream of midday traffic approaching their next appointment
An elderly couple in matching grey overcoats
stand and watch the algae-infested stream
Only you can see
the Southern Cross at the top of the flagpole, carried mindlessly
by murmurs of wind
Only you can see
the splintered ——- benches
bearing the brunt of the hole-in-the-atmosphere
sun
Only you can see
the intricately glazed windows, hiding on a wall
no one ever looks at
As your gaze returns to this classroom on the 4th floor, only you can see
the scornful eye of the teacher demanding
no begging
your focus
Meg Simpson
Year 13
St Andrew’s College
