A trembling hand clutches a drooping white rose,
as if the thorns might stem the tears
and roll back fleeting years.
They stand tall and proud, amid memories
of the day they first went through that door
brand new uniforms, tiny shiny shoes,
book bags, packed lunches a novelty
waiting anxiously at the gate
hoping to see a smiling face
to hear tales of learning and friends.
hearing their voices loud and deep
as reflections, memories and prayers are read
clutching hard, fighting now, the years are gone,
today they will walk through gates
festooned with balloons and streamers,
putting on a brave face to save their embarrassment,
we cheer and clap them out,
a new chapter in life, a new step,
they are ready, eager to be on their way
but mother deep her in heart wishes they could stay.
By Niamh Corcoran, Jul 13 2012 4:53PM
This was written on the day my youngest left Primary School. Twelve years I had been going to that gate morning and evening and now it was over, never again would I stand at a school gate waiting for my child.