Ah, the first official day of Spring, here in the Southern Hemisphere! It's sunny, with a slightly chilly breeze, which prompts the sensible person to don a pullover or hoodie or suchlike. The washing is dancing on the line and most birds are convinced that the season is in full swing. 

Yesterday I watched a bower bird dancing in front of his impressive pile of twigs (the bower) with a confidence that a mate would shortly arrive. The day before that, I was swooped by my first magpie. Now that is early!

To segue shamelessly, I have been compiling coming episodes of my pre-recorded 2RPH show, 'Writers from the Vault', and find that with every path into literature I take, multiple paths open up, each as inviting as the first. The other day I stumbled on a review of a short W.H. Davies poem, 'School's Out', whose way led onto other ways.

I mean, I began to muse on my own school days, particularly primary school, since beyond that it becomes rather dark. But first, here's the Davies poem,

Girls scream,

    Boys shout;

Dog's bark,

    School's out.

Cat's run,

    Horses shy;

Into trees,

    Birds fly.

Babes wake,

   Open-eyed;

If they can,

   Tramps hide,

Old Man,

   Hobble home;

Merry mites,

   Welcome.

I don't specifically recall any horses, babes or tramps, but I can identify with the joy with the final bell that signalled that the summer holidays had begun. For kids it was an especially wonderful time, with Christmas just around the corner and the long, long idyll that stretched into and beyond the new year, a time of bike riding, hot sand beaches and cricket in the yard. Call it halcyon if you will, but we were young. It still resonates with me today.

The above poem had an attendant photograph, simply labelled 'School's Out in 1931.' What would these boys have to say now if they could? Most, if not all, are long gone. Some would have fallen in World War 2. But here, in this old snap, they do look happy, don't you think?

Photo courtesy 'The Guardian.'