Dreamed of boy from primary school, last seen forty years ago,

Haven’t thought of him till now, why the dream I just don’t know.

Never liked him very much, bit of a bully, rather rough,

Vicar’s son, red hair and freckles; boy soprano, solo stuff.

Headmaster’s favourite for the singing; gifted youngster, that was plain,

‘Holy, holy’ in the choir – in the classroom more profane.

Crystal voice and Hackney Sanctus: maybe teacher’s pious whim

That juniors in Northwold Road should hear Isaiah’s seraphim.

Why this uninvited dream, reviving unexpected ghosts,

Rough and ready red-haired boys and ‘Holy, holy, Lord of Hosts’?