Neville

In my cast list of teachers
there are more villains than heroes.

The Reverend Neville Stevens was stern
captured and tortured by the Japs,
he appeared not to approve of Jews
I picked my way around the broken glass of him.
Troubled by the discord between
his fierce solemnity
and being school chaplain,
where was the love?

Sixth form eased his tyrant grip
grammar school was a stormy time
the rip tide of each term
casting me further away
from the shore of my parents’ experience
until we divorced, aliens
gazing across
a sea of learning.
Like Jesus at Galilee
the Reverend Neville Stevens calmed my waters
bestowing the gift
of only the greatest teachers
belief

In my thirties, at an introspective cross-road
I wrote to the Reverend Neville Stevens
offered meek thanks
an acknowledgement
he told me
of his life of privilege
how humbling it had been to
tutor not only those
blessed with ability and assurance
but those like me
those ‘gifted but uncertain’

For too short a time
we exchanged letters
daring to break
the bonds of classroom doctrine
calling him Neville
until the Japs’ slow work
was complete

His epitaph is unreadable
shattered and spread
over a multitude of hearts
and souls like mine
but through him I
know the words on my tomb
He lived, gifted but uncertain