Hot tarmac black as Stout
Bubbling in an old drum
Heady aroma of burnt liquorice,
Dark coffee & cake
Every smooth drive a goalkick further
From the fresh green pitches of youth.
Uncomfortable uncle-dancing in a suit under flashing lights
With a pint in each hand at a wedding
The curled corners of corned beef sandwiches
Cut into triangles at Christenings
The sober, sombre black of funerals, sensible as referees,
Pain numbed less each time the head is hung
Three shrill blasts on a final whistle
Then enveloped by pine in soil or fire.
We count the years in seasons.