The school holidays in the final furlong
and the next new phase and term in clear sight.
This is when the thousands receive their plain envelopes
informing them whether they have made the grade,
precisely. And we look on, remembering
or not remembering a future built on hopes
and inadequacy, not knowing what is right
about our work and knowledge, and what is wrong,
aware too of us in them and how things fade.
We kiss them out the door and wait until they ring

with hard facts that bring five years to a close.
Then look in the bedroom where all the revision
was done, revising too, seeing all those years
of growing height as bedtime story voices rose
and fell, a childhood came and went by division
of days and night, multiples of love and tears;

learning again by heart how what’s past continues
while outcomes slip away into receding views.