I am older than all the other students in the class. I am, at fifty-six, what is generally termed a ‘mature student’. There is a plethora of i-pads in the classroom, earphones, tablets and other electronic gizmos, the names of which I don’t know.
The wall behind the lectern is a large, white screen. The teacher stands on the podium, writing on his laptop with his liquid pen. He barely looks around, not even to the screen behind.
Quite suddenly, I feel as if the table starts vibrating. My classmate’s mobile phone screen lights up with “MOM” and his hand hovers indecisively over it.
spring zephyr
my fluttering scarf
chases nothingness