Love stopped before it began

It would have been love, I am sure of it,
and I held her hand torn between concern and pride
whilst she cried and cried on her first day at school.

We walked to where her brother mowed the lawns
with many others, racing with their mowers
at manic speed in tight formation. Fascination
dared me join their frenzied rush, a madness
so inviting that I ran amongst the madmen dicing
at each other’s heels and tempting death or injury.

The crying stopped. Before I could explain I had
the Head’s disapprobation pained upon my hands.

I’ve tried to write this poem but a dozen times,
I had the lines impressed, and even rhymes,
but pain of the strap delivered with dispassionate
venom cooled my ardour and instilled a lingering distress
for love stopped before it began.
© I.D. Carswell