The Poetry Prize

The year nines had an exercise in rhyme.
A poem, not more than fourteen lines,
the theme was open: freedom, love or war
and had to use a central metaphor.
Frankie’s was the best. His teacher thought
it should be printed in the Annual Report.
He wrote about a leather glove that had
lost its pair, took it home for Dad
to see, wanted him to know he’d won
the prize, to show approval for his clever son.
Frank gave it to him proudly; straight away
Dad put it down.  The paper went astray
and turned up later, a message scribbled on it,
coffee stained and torn.  It was a sonnet.

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