The Last Day of School

On his feet, which once I held to my palm,

Soft, and tender and trusting of my touch,

His shoes, like mementos of daily harm,

Cling on, unsure which step will prove too much.

The heels, once firm, are trodden to the ground,

The laces knotted where they frayed and split,

The tongue, I fear, will nevermore be found,

Yet those black shoes have still refused to quit.

He stands in them, this babe, this boy, this man,

Tight-jawed, weighed down, uniformed for stricture,

In shoes that wore down but never out-ran,

And capitulates to one last picture.

In that one photograph, my child, sixteen,

Is also four, and reaching for my hand,

Salt streaked cheeks, but still trying to seem keen,

Self-belief just a castle made of sand.

He is six, and eight and ten and thirteen,

And the moat is breached, but the walls remain,

The turrets are gone, crumbled at fourteen,

And by fifteen the keep echoes with pain.

This should have been a time of his laughter,

Should have been a time he found himself strong,

He should have learnt he would be looked after,

Should have known he could be seen, and belong.

At the passing of this golden era,

I had hoped I would feel a greater grief,

That his remembrances might be dearer,

That this time would give, not prove her own thief.

I cannot mourn what he was not granted,

Though I mourn the loss of what should have been,

I mourn the health of fears that were planted,

I mourn boyish hope, now wizened and mean.

But he stands, still, in those school-battered shoes,

This nearly-man, looking down from above,

And I wonder, tomorrow, might we choose,

To re-member him as worthy of love.