The building was vast and square,
by Amy Gerrard
It had little respect for design or care.
Just a place that was supposed to shape,
An academic, enquiring mind,
It’s masters overbearing – intrinsic
Of a dominant archaic kind.
No mortarboard hats or canes,
Just swagger and gowns were all that remained.
A place that existed on,
It’s former days of heady glory,
A school that belched out the occasional,
Very, silly Tory.
But I got by and walked my line,
With head bowed down, I served my time.
Within loveless stone and aged brick,
Classes parted the intellect, from the thick.
Teachers stood before the mock, baroque stairs
As exercise books rained down from the musty air.
“Terrible, Atkins – repeat this again! ”
As the poor, little chap sighed and picked up a pen.
Daydreams ruled supreme, as young minds drifted away
To the golden prospect of, some foreign holiday.
And so we gazed out across the lawns
Of Rugby, Cricket, athletics - the music room of tubas and horns,
And the clock moved on its silent arc
As Greenhall flicked ink in ebullient lark.
It still stands today, a penal place,
As if time stood still, no mark or trace,
Of us all that once filed inside its space.
Our existence as vaporous as the chemistry lessons’ gases,
All scattered to the wind like anonymous ashes.