You should have seen them, small and wild
Against a map of the known world.

The back row of the class of ’61.
Internal exiles at thirteen or fourteen.

Most couldn’t read, though Mungo Park
Could write his name. He’d made his mark

As surely as some old explorer
Would christen a mountain, or a river.

To chart his progress, bench by embellished bench,
Till he petered out next to Lefty Lynch

Who kept ladybirds in a matchbox,
Some with two, others with seven spots.

Who knew it all. Where to listen for the cuckoo
When she touched down from Africa.

Why bananas were harvested while green
But would hanker after where they’d grown,

Their sighing from the depths of a ship
Or from under the counter in Lightbody’s shop,

How all that greenness turned to gold
Through unremembering darkness, and unsteady hold.