Monday, January 11, 2016

The Summer Teacher.

That summer,
when I was as high as
my grandma's knee,
she decided to send me
to an art class.
Early in the morning
I was woken up.
My sketch book, 
pencils, paints
and brushes packed. 
My teacher had 
a grey beard, 
thick glasses,
a penchant for
clean, crisp shirts
and a smile
which made
his eyes crinkle.
He looked us over.
A large group
of barely awake kids
forced out of beds 
early on a
summer holidays
morning. 
He had two rules,
he said.
We hated rules.
You all need to 
take a bath before 
you come to class.
We hated baths. 
And the second rule?
When you paint,
break all the rules
there are.
A blue sun.
Red grass.
Yellow crows.
Pink elephants.
And purple people
were perfectly acceptable.
We stared at him
trying to fathom
a world where 
no one was telling us 
to colour within the lines. 
And just like that
we started taking baths
at 6 AM every day.
Without a single complaint.

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