Punishment
by Perry McDaid
The school bell would have rung
by the time
we got word the bus
wasn’t coming.
The drivers were afraid
to collect at
Creggan
and Shantallow
in the aftermath
of Bogside hijacks.
So we
had to trudge
through six
inches
of freezing snow:
its surface
sleek as glaze
and crisp
as mint crunch.
Beneath;
energy-
sapping sponge
ate resolve:
we knew
Monsignor Pigface
would make
no allowances.
Wrong class.
Detention
loomed,
yet still
we endured
abusive
spot-searches
by squaddies;
thrown stones
from
loyalist
schoolgrounds
passed;
and
trudged
on.