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At the chalkface: A ballad of Peckham Rye

Teaching staff
Light falls like a blessing. We’re all passing through. I seem to be having a vision. I’m in good company. Didn’t Blake famously have visions in Peckham Rye? Didn’t he see angels somewhere here?

On an early morning in May I get on a train at Peckham Rye in south London. A fresh, blue sky hangs over the city. The light is clean and precise. It slants luminously across us. Our carriage can hardly contain it. The passengers are calm and hushed, as they plug in, tune out, read or just chill. A rich mix, I imagine them as pupils I may have taught, all grown up. We pass warehouses, Millwall’s Den, trees and blossoms and the sun shines staccato on us.

We are sometimes lost in light.

There’s a man in his 30s in a electric blue suit, an Olivier Giroud haircut, trim beard and brogues. He’s reading the Guardian about the Liverpool game and the Windrush scandal.

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