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At ten past eight on each school day -
And not on Saturday I’ll say -
     The bus to school would come in sight
      And often I was in a plight -

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For my Mum used to plait my hair
And, though she took the utmost care,
      I knew that without any fuss
      That I must dash to catch that bus.

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I knew that free from Mum and comb
I then could flee my family home.
      I’d sprint with speed to the bus stop
      And on this vehicle I’d hop.

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I’m sure the driver watched for me
For surely every day he’d see
    Me quickly dash with arms outstretched,
    With speed of feet and muscles stretched.

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He also knew, if I were late,
That at the other end would wait
     A punishment so very cruel 
     For children who came late to school.

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The teacher’s ruler would come out
And it was cowardly to shout
     When on my knuckles it cracked down -
     The teacher wearing a cross frown.

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Train for Olympics?  No, no need -
My daily run improved my speed.
     And now, aged 80 plus, - - - - ah me -
     At ten past eight I sip my tea.

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Copyright on my poems