Her class of 30 adolescents, apathetic, disinclined, avid only for the shift of time.
But English. Poetry. She recites:
‘November. The month of the drowned dog.’
Slight sniggers. At least someone is listening. She tries again.
Repeats Hughes’ line.
‘ …drowned dog.’
Now someone laughs, says something obscene under his breath.
But another boy looks up. Says,
She repeats it. More confidently now.
He mutters the words under his breath.
“I like that. That’s good.”
And suddenly the afternoon is brighter.
Some light restored.