Tindall, me and Jamieson

It was one of those grey days          
One of those grey winter days            
Beloved of Yorkshire folk, adverse, cold         
Light enough for  soccer after school,            
The duty master marking in the staff room.            
"Minor pitch" he said,  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 on the wireless)
So to the 'Junior 'we went, green not as  muddy.            
The luckiest moment in our lives       
Destiny this day, I was fourteen and tall.            
Not so good at soccer but fastest in the school,           
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, 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 Nunthorpe  Grammar school.            
The duty- master covered an airman  
saw us off the school,    
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,      
One in the kitchens.          
We were a lucky team, called the game a draw            
Lived to tell the tale just as it was   .  .  .  .  .            
Tindall, me and Jamieson.