Be'guile Copyright © 2009 Rob Lock

See that? The kid whose mother thinks he’s so
advanced, the one who talks as if his brain’s
been supersonically enhanced, is up a gum tree,
stuck. He can’t give the antonym – that’s opposite
to you and me - of what is on the board: ‘Entrance’.

When the teacher gently laughs and writes up ‘Exit’
before dismissing class, the bright kid turns bright red
and legs it: doesn’t hang around to hear the raucous laughter
of the others, those put on his left or in rows
below him after Friday tests, to their mutual chagrin.

"There must be a word - a verb? - that I was after,
one I haven’t come across so far."  Lexicon: a noun
he’s not yet met. He does know, though, that words
can rule, that that’s OK. Adventures, legends, testaments,
all cast spells into the deeper pockets of his being.

Years will pass before the feel of soil, as seeds
are dibbled in, can do it too; or crocus leaves,
sawdust, string quartets - work a magic, catch him
off a guard he doesn’t keep; whisk him to the door
of the self-forgetting place, and take him in, entranced.