by Jennifer Bliss
There’s a little school in Calais town,
With creaky doors and swings worn down.
Not lots of kids in every class,
Some desks empty as days go past.
They count the numbers — one, two, three.
“Not many students,” they say sadly.
“Maybe it’s time to close the doors,
There aren’t enough kids anymore.”
Some schools are busy, bright and wide,
With many halls and doors inside.
Lots of children, lots to do,
With some faces every day feeling new.
They learn in groups both big and small,
With charts and plans to guide them all.
Good places too, in their own way,
Just different from Calais each day.
But in this school so small and sweet,
Everybody knows your name and feet.
Best friends share crayons, laughs and glue.
Teachers have time to listen too.
Imagination fills the air,
Recycled paper creations everywhere.
Stories grow bigger than any book,
If you stop and really take a look.
So if one day the lights go dim,
And Calais school must close its hymn,
Remember this, both big and small:
Learning is not numbers after all.
It’s friendship, wonder, space to play —
That’s what lived in Calais every day.
Jennifer Bliss and her husband and children live in East Calais
