Maureen’s Poems


Hanging back, one girl shows me

Poems she writes all the time,

Each one’s uncluttered, charged

With wonder that echoes in each Rhyme: looking round she drops

Her voice, “Sir laughed and called Them silly, said that they were Childish trash, not proper poetry.”


As we walk across the yard,

Throat tight, I spit out laughter:

“Forget about old green gills there,

Who was Blake’s English Master?”



Kevin McCann
Illustration: Claire Palmer

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