It was one of those grey days

It was one of those grey winter days  
Beloved of Yorkshire folk, adverse and cold,  
Light enough for a soccer match after school,  
The Duty Master marking in the staff room  
Minor pitch he said,but he left us on our own  
(He was History    .   .   .   . and English    .   .   .   ..  
"Never say sweat when you can say perspiration “)  
He married the Art Mistress, She was nice.  
We nicknamed  him Jimmy.Jewel, after a comedian.  
So on to the 'Junior 'we went, green and not as  muddy.  
One of the luckiest moments in my life.  
Destiny this day, I was fourteen and tall.  
Not so good at soccer but fastest in the schoo,l  
Seemed to lose control of the ball after kicking it.  
On the Junior pitch two Houses played, grey and cold  
We were Normans, the others Saxons  
Better players than us but we could write !  
Unheeding of the aircraft overhead, the night shift,  
Going to war, January, dusk, wardens in the streets.  
A wing fell off above the minor pitch, the ball forgotten,  
Tindall ran beside me, Jamieson too.  
At the pavilion we stopped, lay down to watch.  
Like a pack of cards the house fell, no parachutes,  
Engines, bodies, one dead on the minor pitch  
One survived to marry a nurse .   .   .   .   .  
What happened to the ball, we never knew,  
It did not seem to matter.  
I ran back for my shin pads, we were hard up,  
Lucky to be at  Grammar school the best in town.  
The Duty- Master covered an airman and saw us home.  
Dad cycled across  town, not on duty today.  
Later found this not the only crash.  
Eight that night ,and the house burnt down,  
The Minor pitch a hail of metal and perspex,  
Bullets bombs, three engines on the Minor pitch  
We were a lucky team, called the game a draw  
Lived to tell the tale just as it was   .  .  .  .  .  
Tindall, me and Jamieson.