Last day of term

This poem is for my Mum and Dad, who retire from their school jobs today, 21/07/17 x

I see kids this morning,
clutching Cath Kidston gift bags,
babbling on their way to school
on a zinger of a last day,
all blue skies and clearing out your lockers.
I remember that too:
the shine of pride on my face as I went
to the front of the class,
brandishing a card with earnest scribbles,
perhaps a bottle of wine that felt far too heavy
in my primary-school hands.
I remember my Dad coming home with a car boot full
of Parker pens, new ties, boxes of chocolates, whisky, wine,
a feast of gifts on the dining room table,
sweet presents from his Year 6 students,
possibly never to see them again.
Sometimes, a poor but well-meant thing,
a terrible dusty ornament grabbed in haste,
or something already open.
But each could mean the world.
We buzzed around the haul,
asking if we could open the Maltesers; 
save that box of ink cartridges for September
which would feel a lifetime away.