TEACHERS: THE LETTERED TORCHBEARERS

When I turn back and watch lone miles,
I see old roads in leaves and dust.
But there beside an old bench smiles,
And waves as a silhouette from yon past.

'Tis not the bench but a soul divine,
A soul whose demeanour bestowed skills.
For years on years; with no glimpse of shine,
It carried us safe on noetic wheels.

Each step we moved and each new road,
Saw we glimpses all anew.
There they stood with a chalk and board,
And taught us lessons with scoldings few.

Like a seed to a tree grows great,
We grew tall with the sky too close.
Savouring days and...