This story is rated 4 stars (3 ratings).

by Being Doris

A journey on slick black roads,

A nobody with the others,

Through rain and snow,

No rainbow.


A journey taken every morning,

Across the shire with the others,

Going east and west,

No rest.


All lost in thought,

All unknown and irrelevant,

The same people making journeys,

Making way,


To where the little people go.


My journey passing by the others,

Through the darkness and gloom,

Wiping away the sleep,

Onwards creep.


Until I arrive, end my drive,

At an oasis of learning,

Hidden in a patchwork of fields,

Bare yields,


To where the little people go.


Open the door against the wind,

Rain lashing my clothes to my skin,

Running now, pounding up the steps,

Rustling, raking, dropping, finding keys,

To open once more,

The red door,


To where the little people go.


And oh,


The magic that lies within,

The golden light spilling out and

Tumbling down the steps,

To greet them,

To reach out and embrace them,

To warm them and welcome them,

As they fill the oasis with fun.


Laughter and learning and banter,

And joy, music and acting

And colour, colour galore,

Sounds and songs, talking,

Trying, examining, explaining,

Exclaiming exciting,


In classrooms and hallways,

The gym and the garden,

In nooks and in crannies,

In the office and the staffroom,



And me, the nobody, gray,

From a journey,

I’m there’s and they know it,

Not irrelevant but vital,

Cared for for caring,

In this magical place,


Where the little people go.




                                                                                Being Doris

© Being Doris 2011


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