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In Mrs Tilscher’s Class

You could travel up the Blue Nile

with your finger, tracing the route

while Mrs Tilscher chanted the scenery.

Tana. Ethiopia. Khartoum. Aswân.

That for an hour, then a skittle of milk

and the chalky Pyramids rubbed into dust.

A window opened with a long pole.

The laugh of a bell swung by a running child.


This was better than home. Enthralling books.

The classroom glowed like a sweet shop.

Sugar paper. Coloured shapes. Brady and Hindley

faded, like the faint, uneasy smudge of a mistake.

Mrs Tilscher loved you. Some mornings, you found

she’d left a good gold star by your name.

The scent of a pencil slowly, carefully, shaved.

A xylophone’s nonsense heard from another form.


Over the Easter term, the inky tadpoles changed

from commas into exclamation marks. Three frogs

hopped in the playground, freed by a dunce,

followed by a line of kids, jumping and croaking

away from the lunch queue. A rough boy

told you how you were born. You kicked him, but stared

at your parents, appalled, when you got back home.


That feverish July, the air tasted of electricity.

A tangible alarm made you always untidy, hot,

fractious under the heavy, sexy sky. You asked her

how you were born and Mrs Tilscher smiled,

then turned away. Reports were handed out.

You ran through the gates, impatient to be grown,

as the sky split open into a thunderstorm.

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Carol Ann Duffy

Dame Carol Ann Duffy (born 23 December 1955) is a British poet and playwright. She is a professor of contemporary poetry at Manchester Metropoli…
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