THE LATIN FOR GARDEN.(Poem)

 
   Richard Elliott, tatterdemalion curlyhead, 
   stayed for just the greenest of our years. 
   His trousers could not reach his ankles, 
   and trouble blew about his head 
   in a daily weather. To this he returned 
   his smile, which was a helpless, womanly smile, 
   his eyes ever averted from 
   the snap and rasp of the hierarchy. 
 
   And I must ask what in the world 
   has the world done with him 
   these forty years, lofty oddbod in 
   his rebel collars and short, ridiculous tie? 
 
   I remember how, once a fortnight, 
   it was his whim to bolt from our school 
   into the pearly autumn evenings, 
   bun and toothbrush in his pocket. 
   Sometimes he walked a hundred miles 
   down the wet November lanes 
   into the brown mist of ferns, 
   and sometimes we watched the loud pursuit, 
   housemasters, prefects like gazelles 
   leaping the balustrades, to return 
   long after dark and all now trousered 
   in the black foreshore mud, the runaway 
   between them, pale as a unicorn, amiable, 
   being led into the small room of consequence. 
 
   End of term one, hit bottom in all subjects. 
   Mid-term two, slouched one night in prep, 
   provocatively idle. You'll do your work 
   instructed Prefect. Done it. Then you'll read, 
   clarified Prefect. No books. Then, (it's fixit time) 
   you'll write for me an essay, two pages, subject 
   (pause) The Garden, (pause) ...