Crucible

a poem

Jean Wimmerlin / Unsplash (edited)

In the old school lab
we perched on metal stools,
behind work benches
of royal oak ingrained
with blots of carbonised shellac,
dusted with chalk.

Here we learnt the basics
of oxidation,
kinetics and bonding,
and we filled blank pages
with tables of alchemy,
its molecules and compounds.

From murky cubby holes,
copper pipes snaked aloft to feed
the ranks of Bunsen burners,
their tarnished barrels
dormant—but when ignited,
threw out wondrous flames,
a rippling of Himalayan silk,
blue with orange flare,
destined to dwindle
and hover at lower altitude
over the resting place
of unrealised experiments.

In other long rooms we were taught
the four elements:

— how to draft a business letter,
— sew a french dart,
— bake white bread
— starch our collars.

And we applied ourselves
to each task in hand,
keeping within the dotted line,
while the dazzling footlights
of unattainable science
still danced
inside our heads.

**