SIR,

I should like to congratulate the gritters during the recent snowfalls.

As always they did a magnificent job in keeping our roads open and we are most grateful.

Jeana Hall

(Monmouth)

Memories revived

SIR,

After reading Mike Tamplin's most interesting article about Troy House in the 1970's (Monmouthshire Beacon 22nd January 09) I was re-living old memories.

I was a needlework teacher at Troy House at that time and the head-mistress was Mrs Janice Gayden.

Although I found the post an extremely challenging one, with the many boisterous young ladies to contend with, well, very few were young 'ladies' really.

As a matter of fact they tried to lock me in the store cupboard on one occasion threatening me with some needlework scissors, but I'm pleased to say that little bit of fun for them was of little success.

However, to keep my reply to Mr Tamplin brief, I felt I had to leave because I allowed sentiment to get in my way. One girl in particular kept asking me to take her home with me, but all she needed really was a little T.L.C. She was an endearing child of thirteen and continuously pleaded with me. Obviously, I found this most upsetting, so I drove home with her on my mind all the way. 1 sat down at my desk at home and just had to write a poem about this poor girl.

I was so affected by her, the words of my poem simply flowed onto the paper. I gave her a fictitious name called 'Cathy'. And although I retain the copyright of this poem it has been published in several magazines.

CATHY.

She sits, hands clenched, eyes fixed upon the floor,

Her thoughts are where, oh where 1 wonder?

For she is so young.

Only a child she seems, this wee young lass,

Her youth is spent in such a place as this.

She's done her wrong, but must she bear the pain?

She knows no love, no warmth, no loving arms, a happy home,

Will it ever come her way again?

Her small pale face, her big blue eyes

Look everywhere within these walls,

Searching for true happiness. Pure love,

Where's mama, papa, brother, friends,

Do they deserve her love, who knows, who cares, do they?

Why this dear child should wander to such a place,

So strange, so far from home.

The others here are strong and bold, To them, no tears can touch their hearts,

For life to them is just that way; They cannot understand that life is given to us, apart from love to give, to follow God, not hate and steal, and run loose.

My prayer tonight is for this child,

That she may find her peace within,

To learn to live, respect, not sin, for life, It has to offer her so much, she is so young, So sad, so frail to touch. Perhaps a purpose is there, somewhere for her,

We search, we try to find her fear,

Margaret Bevan

(Abergavenny)