Outside, already growing dark, the day is damp, dead, the last of the autumn leaves turn to mulch. Curb fodder.
Her class of thirty disinclined, apathetic adolescents, avid only for the shift of the clock towards the end of the afternoon.
But English lesson. And poetry. She recites:
‘”November. The month of the drowned dog.”‘
A slight snigger. At least someone is listening. Noting. She tries again.
Repeats Hughes’ line.
Now there is an audible laugh and an obscenity muttered.
But someone else looks up. Alert. Says,
She says it again. More confidently now.
Under his breath yet audible, the boy says,
“I like that. That’s good that is.”
And suddenly her day is brighter, the afternoon tolerable.
Some light restored.