My father gave me this poem. He was a school teacher then Principal.

The poem was written by a retired Educational Inspector and moved me so much.

This poem hung on the wall of my classroom during the 20 years i taught. A poem about difference, the “good”-ness about individuality.

It applied to every child in a music class, as all were entirely different in ability and in taste.

When my son was diagnosed as having Asperger’s Syndrome….it had a different meaning.

I now see it as written by an autistic child

I Love it.  Helen


Child to Teacher.

There is no hand

In all the world like mine

No fingers move in time

To mine or weave the worlds

That I choose to weave

No voice can sing my song

No eyes can see the shapes

I see in wood or clay or stone

My miracle is me.

My flowers, however wild

Irregular their hues

Must be my flowers, my choice

Not yours. My goats may have

Three horns or none at all;

The clay I pinch and pull

And mould and glaze and fire

Needs to be bright with me

And all that’s mine, not you and your’s.

I need to know what you can richly teach

You need to know and keep

The eachness of us each.

Trevor Dickenson