From A Picture Painted In My Mind

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 Teeming out of the underground
Like platoons of soldier ants
Two weeks away had burnt us brown
We wore garish clothes and tans.

2 Leave a comment on verse 2 0 Local pubs were bulging at the seams
With tats and golden studs
“How goes it mate, ave yer heard the team”?
Fans swigged from plastic mugs.

3 Leave a comment on verse 3 0 Low-lifes in the shadows
Snarled through gritted teeth
“I’m buying, selling, any tickets to spare?”
Next to ineffective police.

4 Leave a comment on verse 4 0 Fans hugged fellow loyalists
Who’d been coming here for years?
They’d shared and wallowed in the joy
And comforted through the tears.

5 Leave a comment on verse 5 0 The queue for match day programmes
Was cumbersome and slow
As punters paid, snatched without even a thanks
And sped off up the road.

6 Leave a comment on verse 6 0 Transfixed small kids held on to dad
And tried to take it in
Their long awaited first home match
Was both riveting and exciting.

7 Leave a comment on verse 7 0 Old fans who’d seen it all before
Blew smoke at passing crowds
And remembered from the days of yore
When smoking was allowed.

8 Leave a comment on verse 8 0 Crowded streets were Bedlam
As excited fans in waves
Jumped feet first in to that hedonism
Of new seasons opening day.

9 Leave a comment on verse 9 0 In side the ground the tannoy plays
To a pristine spread of green
As the players, smiling, make their way
To warm up for coming season.

10 Leave a comment on verse 10 0 Later on that night, still excited
Small kids reflected through pleasant dreams
That “Sometimes one has to wait until the evening
To see how glorious the day has been”*



As, due to my uncle celebrating his eighteth birthday at a terrific hooley (party) all day on Saturday, I had to miss that other most auspicious of occasions, the opening day of the season. So I’ve written this poem from the pictures in my mind of opening seasons past.

*The last two lines of the poem are taken from Sophocles, who used to smoke sixty fags a day, was a doctor, and I think played for Fiorentina and Brazil!

Or was that Socrates?



Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/from-a-picture-painted-in-my-mind/