Grade

In the bright glass of the school’s grade‑book,
the numbers write themselves like magnets pulled.
A four, a five, a six – the kingdom of decrees;
each mark a crown for the chessboard of our youth.

My head‑teacher peeks at the spread, a squint,
and whispers, “You’ve done well, you’re on the tub‑tier.”
“But don’t be giddy – it’s only a step,”
as she taps the tab, the stick of progress.

The ‘B’ is a brass band at a block party,
the ‘A’s, the choir on the choir squeeze;
and the ‘E’ — oh the death, the DIY hive‑meth,
the one who’d rather hack a biscuit in the wicks.

Raising the grade feels like climbing the nursery,
small triumphs scrawled on the chalk‑dust wall –
in that after‑school swirl, the alphabet swims.
The weight of a six for astronomy, the clear gal.

And yet the grades are dust‑boxes of brass files,
for some, a thriller; for others, a lazy bog.
They tell us what we’ve read in school’s little aisle,
but nothing, as the city bell, tells us the odds.

So we stand, honest, in those bright‑lined pages –
the number, the weather, the future, a fever.
Grade feathers don’t always adorn the best ages,
yet I carry a proud scar, a silent “succeed”‑lever.