Purple Flared Pete Poem by Maureen Pickford

It was still pitch-black
at nine o'clock,
outside our classroom,
that cold December morning
in 1969.

Drama was our first lesson
and we were growing restless
with impatience,
pupils all present;
enthusiasm absent.

Then in strode our new teacher.
A feast for our eyes.
Instead of a nun's black habit;
purple flares,
craggy face
and a kipper tie!

Not a Sister
but a Mister!

He made our lessons fun.
It was the way he taught.
We learned to try on characters,
children,
delving into a
dressing-up box.

That day, he
accidentally
dropped
his own name.
He chalked it onto
the blackboard
before all his fame.
Our new teacher
just happened to be...
the late, great
Pete Postlethwaite!