Our People

I dreamed I stood in a studio

And watched two sculptors there

The clay they used was a young child’s mind

And they fashioned it with care.

One was a teacher; the tools he used

Were books and music and art;

One a parent with a guiding hand,

And a gentle, loving heart.

Day after day the teacher toiled,

With touch that was loving and sure.

While the parent laboured by his side

And polished and smoothed it over.

And when at last their task was done,

They were proud of what they had wrought,

for the things they had moulded into the child could neither be sold or bought.

And each agreed he would have failed

If he had worked alone,

For behind the parent stood the school

And behind the teacher, the home.

Anon 1998