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Three hundred children, brim full of poetry’ are shuffled from the library: a whispered threat to their security (just enough to suggest that nothing that has been and is and always was, will ever be the same again.)

The river is too high and still it rains.

Three hundred children, eyes opened up recklessly, watch consonance leap apocalyptically, chanting cataclysmically, shouting out, ‘the end is nigh’ and fiercely, metaphorically, dragging fine diagonal lines across the day dark sky.

In less than two hours time, the water will be child high.

Three hundred children turn from the frantic shouting, the river rising, the teachers’ rhythmic counting. They strain their necks to see, as out of the worried crowd, a poet pirouettes. Lost in a world, within a world, they watch the old man dance, each catching gratefully his elegant insanity.

Forget the storm. This is the stuff of memories.

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