The Headmaster Poem by Wild Bill Balding

Angled unnaturally in the chair,
wild hair on the wings of his scalp,
the Headmaster stares at the camera
as if to threaten it for daring
to come into his study without knocking,

although his school is two miles down the road
and he is at home in Bronwenda,
'good white breast' in Welsh,
although such things are never
mentioned in front of him,
as neither is the mounting pile
of empty bottles under the stairs.

If he is relaxing, his dark suit
is still on duty,
protecting the pedestal marked Headmaster,
holding within the screams
of the academic whose youngest son
was drowned at Cambridge:
the suit a shell of hollow armour,
hiding the punishment to heart and liver
which will ensure
he will not need his pension.

Respected in the village,
large house, good position;
yet does the suit,
and will the grave,
hide unfulfilled longings
of bigger schools,
books written,
name made,
or the taste of finest wine
on good white breasts?

And must I,
with hair to match that of
the grand-dad I never knew,
end my days like that man in the suit
or shell, or shroud?
Or may I write another ending
with long life, happy home,
books written, and the taste
of finest wine on good white breasts?