The old School building.(P)

Every stone tells a story,

For every town, a tale,

The town of St Georges is no different,

(Despite its lack of dragon slaying)

Yet there is one place.

That deviates from the story,

And provides a grim sub-plot.

Running in-between the lines.

The old school building,

Stands abandoned and silent,

Yet its face screams its story,

Louder than it’s words ever could.

An autobiographical rage,

At its mistreatment,

And fall from grace.

The playground is destitute.

It is deathly still and cold.

It's only visitors are the grass and ivy,

That clambers up the climbing frame,

And travels down the slide.

The wind echoes unspoken laughter,

As ghosts play upon the swings.

The doors are locked and bolted.

The inside is dead to the outside.

Yet if one wanted to risk it,

Entrance could be gained,

Through one of many broken windows,

On the many mile-long levels,

That whispered in the wind.

The school boy's crush and school-girls gossip,

Imprinted on the bricks by long finished classes.

Once, it may have been attractive,

Red bricked and lavish, one might say beautiful,

(In its own uniquely British way)

As if it was pulled from Dickens.

Now however it is repugnant.

Stained by age and maimed by youth,

It desires only to be left alone.

My presence offending it,

I took my leave from the silent schoolyard.

Since then I have barely looked at it,

Only from chance passing glances.