The foyer, a hive of parents. Small off-spring
in lurex and cardboard, are teacher-whisked away.
The hive disperses, the buzz settles, expectantly.
The curtain rises on parrots, rainbow-costumed,
feathered, hooded and beaked; back stage creations,
alive now, tiny arms flailing in simulated flight.
Unsynchronised bemused infants search the shadowed
rows for their own safe familiar belaying-pins.
as they straggle of stage, beckoned and cajoled.
Suddenly, an explosion of music; pirates and wenches
flood the stage as Treasure Island erupts with
whirling skirts and clashing swords, adrenaline fed;
a hurricane of colour; tempest of sound as Mrs Reardon’s
spring-loaded arms pound the school piano and nodding head
elevates the untrained voices to concert pitch.
Junior school, class two, sails the ocean. A dropped sword
and gingham bonnet lie abandoned on the wooden beach,
deserted now, awaiting hurried change of scene.
Jim Hawkins and Long John Silver, surrounded by small
mixed infants; gold and silvered into pieces of eight
weave their way through the plot, upheld by the
unflagging crashing waves of teacher’s music and her wide
all-encompassing smile; pride of achievement soaring
now on the tumultuous acclaim from the audience.
The foyer, a hive again with Mums and Dads and Grannies,
waiting with coats and praise…and McDonald’s promises.
© Marion Sharville
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