Sestina: Foolish Child
I must have been a strange child.
I remember sitting at my desk and
thinking, thinking, about my home.
Did it exist if I wasn’t in it?
I knew it existed when I was there,
but did it exist at other times?
I knew it was there at certain times,
I was quite an intelligent child.
I knew at dinner time I could go there
and I would find it. At home time, and
once I went there at playtime by mistake. It
was there then, my familiar home.
But did it know I was coming home?
Could I rely on it at other times?
Did it disappear into the mist and it
then reappear for this one child?
How did I know it was there and,
also, did the school exist when I wasn’t there?
When I was in it I knew school was there,
because I went there from my home -
assuming my home existed - and
I wondered if school existed at the times
I was away. Never told another child
of these thoughts - never thought to do it.
I never told my mother of it
either, when I was at home. There
was no notion in her head that her child
could be perplexed in her home
by such ridiculous thoughts. Times
were immutably times to her and
places were places. Reason and
logic, therefore, decreed that it
was impossible that places and times
could ever alter. How could there
be any such question? Home was home
and school was school. Foolish child.
So I never knew if my home was there
at all times, and learned that a child must live
with this mystery and never solve it.
Valerie Darville lives in Enfield, North London and with her husband, Anthony Fisher, runs Salisbury House Poets. She has been published in a number of anthologies and been placed in various competitions, including the Bridport (twice) and the Petra Kenney. She is interested in form as well as free verse, and particularly in the sestina.
I must have been a strange child.
I remember sitting at my desk and
thinking, thinking, about my home.
Did it exist if I wasn’t in it?
I knew it existed when I was there,
but did it exist at other times?
I knew it was there at certain times,
I was quite an intelligent child.
I knew at dinner time I could go there
and I would find it. At home time, and
once I went there at playtime by mistake. It
was there then, my familiar home.
But did it know I was coming home?
Could I rely on it at other times?
Did it disappear into the mist and it
then reappear for this one child?
How did I know it was there and,
also, did the school exist when I wasn’t there?
When I was in it I knew school was there,
because I went there from my home -
assuming my home existed - and
I wondered if school existed at the times
I was away. Never told another child
of these thoughts - never thought to do it.
I never told my mother of it
either, when I was at home. There
was no notion in her head that her child
could be perplexed in her home
by such ridiculous thoughts. Times
were immutably times to her and
places were places. Reason and
logic, therefore, decreed that it
was impossible that places and times
could ever alter. How could there
be any such question? Home was home
and school was school. Foolish child.
So I never knew if my home was there
at all times, and learned that a child must live
with this mystery and never solve it.
Valerie Darville lives in Enfield, North London and with her husband, Anthony Fisher, runs Salisbury House Poets. She has been published in a number of anthologies and been placed in various competitions, including the Bridport (twice) and the Petra Kenney. She is interested in form as well as free verse, and particularly in the sestina.
