Pegasus

Wet Break again and in the fug
of the classroom, a girl is drawing.
Friends gather round as she coaxes
from the blankness of the page,

a horse with wings. She bows her head,
narrows her eyes in concentration
as she conjures nostrils, jaw, curve
of neck and belly, forelimbs pawing.

Though she’s yet to gain a sense
of scale, perspective, they can feel
the rush of wind through its mane,
the lightning in its eye.

The school bell cracks like a whip,
herding the children to their desks.
They stand as Mrs Shaw walks in,
everyone, except the girl—

she’s lost in the texture
of the horse’s hair and feathers.
Two boys in the back row snigger.
Settle down, says Mrs Shaw,

It’s Maths test now. She remembers
how she’d read them stories
on Friday afternoons, how their minds
ripened like wild strawberries.

The children groan, get their pens
and rulers out, except the girl.
Mrs Shaw sighs, slides the mask
of authority on, glimpses

Pegasus rearing — deep down,
she admires her quiet defiance,
wills her on before they fit
her golden bridle, blinker her eyes.

By Elizabeth Barton