They sat down in the grid of grey desks, pens poised,
minds a mass of colours:
Red and blue and yellow with frustration, fear and eagerness.
Grey with that dull sense of deja vu:
That familiar vision of sitting at the grey table, badly
vandalized,
glazed eyes staring blankly
at that piece of evil on the table.
Of course in this epochal battle,
each head, bent towards the table in concentration
tells its own story of victory and defeat.
Having had a hand in orchestrating this,
by turns I prayed in intercession
for clarity of minds,
by turns I shook my head
at their muddied foolishness.
Young soldiers in battle, some poised for war, equipped, their
mouths set, their belts girded.
And yet still
Some bewildered some crying inside some shivering some yawning some
thinking of a love
waiting outside.
They played their chess now.
I'd played mine awhile back, setting the pieces and the traps
that
I'd spent the last months warning them against.
Now will these sheep learn from their wolverine tutor?
