He's Crying

My infants class are restless on the carpet.
The maths lesson is going longer than their concetration span.
They fidget,
One picks furtively at the books on the shelf,
One has their socks in their mouth.
I know that it is time to wind it up,
Before the learning moment is lost.
Then it is his turn.
The child with too much going on at home.

His wide smile and over eagerness show,
That he is excited to be up next.
But he has not understood the question.
Before my eyes I watch him crumple.
His eyes look shocked and bewildered.
Everything droops like a flower deprived of rain.
Tears well in his eyes.

And I explain that it is all right.
(I want to hold him, but of course I can't.)
"We only learn from our mistakes," I say.
He tries to explain his confusion,
But he can't.
His eyes are leaking now,

And the other kids are ready to cut him, the weakest, down.
They have the blood lust.
I must save his face.
"Stop!"

All eyes are on me.
I have command of their attention.
I apologise for not phrasing the question better.
"It is just a misunderstanding.
I have confidence that you will get this 'perfectly right',
Now you understand," I say.
And he does.
" Sometimes we just can't choose when we will cry," I say.

Our philosophical discussion goes till lunchtime.

Damaged Goods

I watched him physically and mentally deflate.
I had uttered words,
Not harsh or cruel but critical enough to overfill,
His heavy bowl of hurt.

He receded into himself like a rose,
Deprived of sunshine - closing up.
Drooping from want of sustenance- lacking tenderness.

I watched the inner battle,
With his mental demons,
'Anxiety',' Fear', 'Hopelessness.'
Too strong and demanding,
Too great a foe to be vanquished,
By one so young.

He put up a valiant fight.
I saw glimpses of his resolve,
To fight down those tears.
They managed only to glaze,
His large round childish eyes.

So unfair,
That a sweet babe must shoulder the weight,
Of a bowl so full.
I feel my heart strings straining at the terrible realisation,
That I added to his burden.