On the walls were columns of names <br />engraved with surgical precision <br />on boards of fine wood. <br />Everything spoke of the rape of nature, humanity <br />and the human heart. <br />**** *******, Housemaster, glided through the house, <br />a teflon fish through stagnant filth. <br />At the fringes, trace elements escaped <br />into the chaotic but real world outside <br />- Harrow - and infected it with its hierarchy: <br />Every one of us had our place between two others, <br />One above, one below. <br /> <br />I liked to play squash in the winter-time, <br />when no one else wanted to leave the warmth <br />of the boarding house. I loved crossing the black <br />gap to the bare, classless walls of the squash courts. <br />No one needed to know. <br />I and George - or Tom - would play in the cold <br />until we glowed with physical heat. <br />Then we would turn off the buzzing lights, <br />shut the door, and return for a nervous shower <br />in fear of our mocking peers. <br /> <br />(Edinburgh, August 2012)<br /><br />Hugh Fraser<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/harrow/
