Re-Sits Poem by Jim McDonald

On a warm May morning I am invigilating a pointless Government exam
when a child asks eagerly,
“How much time left...? ”
A question better than any on his exam paper.
Enough time to enjoy being a teenager and still have years to spare
Enough time to allow wet Sundays to seep away filled by games with dice
and long afternoons of meaningless sport on the television.
Perhaps even enough time to take hundreds of photographs and, in future years,
not know what they mean or who they show.
For a nine year old child, full of time, it stretches away in an incomprehensible swirl.
My time is carefully parcelled up – and if I could I would wrap it in tape to ensure none slips away.
My calculations show that if I am given my full time
I have enough for twenty summers watching my daughter grow and fascinate,
a thousand more evenings of watching storms over French valleys,
perhaps forty-five more Cup Finals.
“How much time left…? ” he asks.
I am past the point after which I will automatically respond,
“Not enough.”
Not enough time for re-sits, at any rate.

22.vii.07