My mother scratched the soles of my shoes
to stop me slipping
when I went away to school.
I didn’t think a few scratches
with a pair of scissors
was going to be enough.
I was walking on ice,
my arms stretched out.
I didn’t know where I was going.
Her scratches soon disappeared
when I started sliding
down those polished corridors.
I slid into class.
I slid across the hall into the changing-room.
I never slipped up.
I learnt how to skate along with an aeroplane
or a car, looking ordinary,
pretending to have fun.
I learnt how long a run I needed
to carry me as far as the gym
in time for Assembly.
I turned as I went,
my arms stretched out to catch the door jamb
as I went flying past.