The Liverpool Collegiate

Once a cathedral of learning,
fashioned from bold Liverpool stone,
whose face of a medieval castle,
age blackened from amber to stone.

Where behind its high latticed windows,
uniformly, they’d sat in their rows,
dissecting the laws of science,
mastering their Latin prose.

Digesting the wars of nations,
reciting Shakespearean verse,
balancing quadratic equations,
then heaving their leather satchels
up endless flights of leaden stairs.

While daydreaming of football or rugby,
or Summer camp in the Isle of Man,
clipping a ball to the cricket boundary,
growing in stature from boy to young man.

A school steeped in tradition,
classless in its many parts,
proud of both the mathematicians,
and the performers of the arts.

All waiting for a bell to call them,
into the cavernous hall, three floors high,
with its mighty organ roaring out the anthem,
“Vivat Haec sodalitas Decus Esmedunae.”


By Terry Clarke