As head teacher there was none better,
Your teaching practice stuck to the letter.
The children loved your gentle skills,
Or when you spoke of your beloved hills.

Parents would approach you with heartfelt praise,
About your enthusiasm and professional ways.
Their children relating classroom fun,
And how their hearts you always won.

To a child who was ill in bed,
A fairy story was often read,
Among the homework taken to their home,
After their hair you'd gently comb.

But your expertise was put to the test,
When school inspectors "who knew best",
Depicted faults with your beloved school,
Triggering depression that was so cruel.

Discovered by a brook in your cherished hills,
Beside your body a box of pills.
No more to watch the children play,
For their beloved friend they were left to pray. 

Written & (c) John McKay Withey  2008