Football Poets

A St Patrick’s Day Tale

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 As I roved out one Patrick’s morn
Across the purple heather,
I met a wizened leprechaun
And we sat down together.
His face kept breaking into smiles
Which quickly disappeared.
He looked a bit like Johnny Giles
Despite the flowing beard.

¶ 2 Leave a comment on verse 2 0 “Pray tell me sir,” he said at last,
When we had smoked together.
“Why do you walk abroad so fast
Across the purple heather?”
I looked hard at my new-found friend,
Then, in a voice controlled,
Replied “I seek the rainbow’s end,
To claim that pot of gold.”

¶ 3 Leave a comment on verse 3 0 He jumped up with a troubled frown
And paced the purple heather.
And then he promptly sat back down
And wrung his hands together.
“The path you seek is long and hard,”
He said with some emotion,
“I beg you to be on your guard
Or disavow this notion.

¶ 4 Leave a comment on verse 4 0 ‘To every corner of this land,
O’er hills of purple heather,
You must create a hardy band
Who’ll tackle it together.
From rebel Cork to Donegal,
From Waterford to Derry,
You must prepare to give your all,
To do what’s necessary.”

¶ 5 Leave a comment on verse 5 0 But here he stopped and sideways glanced
Across the purple heather,
And I leaned forward, quite entranced
And pressed my lips together.
“This pot of gold,” the little man
Continued, minutes later,
“May well be tempting but I can
Reveal one even greater.

¶ 6 Leave a comment on verse 6 0 ‘No need,” (said he) “to walk abroad
In such inclement weather,
To seek for months your just reward
Across the purple heather.
A fabled golden chalice can
Be taken at a canter.”
And then he mouthed (this little man)
“The Great Cup of Setanta.”

¶ 7 Leave a comment on verse 7 0 “Where is this Cup?” I asked of him,
Among the purple heather,
But the little hairy seraphim
Just pursed his lips together.
“Good sir,” (I said) “Just tell me where
This profitable reward is.”
He fixed me with a steely stare –
“The Kingdom of the Nordies.”

¶ 8 Leave a comment on verse 8 0 I felt my blood-drained form descend
Into the purple heather.
My new-found, hirsute, wizened friend
Went running hell for leather.
All thoughts of pots of gold were gone,
Dismissed by casual banter,
For now my mind was focussed on
The Great Cup of Setanta.

¶ 9 Leave a comment on verse 9 0 The storm clouds slowly gathered in
Above the purple heather.
I very slowly rubbed my chin
And eyed the looming weather.
And then I blithely sallied forth,
Traversing streams and ditches,
Course now altered for the north
And unimagined riches.

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