On Celtic Reaching The UEFA Cup Final
¶ 1
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Eyes, prised wide with white,
full moons of wonder,
bloodhound the ball,
transfixed by it’s geometry.
¶ 2
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Mouths, wound round in sound,
black holes of mystery,
gasp in universal unison
at the oh, so close.
¶ 3
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Then Larsson,
The King of Kings,
traps the ball,
sidesteps a defender,
¶ 4
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draws back his golden boot,
and drills a low, hard shot
deep into the bottom corner
bulging the net.
¶ 5
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A volcanic eruption
of viscerality
shrieks up, out and away
into the starlit sky
¶ 6
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filling the void
with a kaleidoscope of colour.
What once was empty –
the humdrum,
¶ 7
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the bland, the grey,
the routine and order,
the everyday –
fills full with meaning.
¶ 8
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Don’t tell me
it’s “jist a gemme”.
For the working man
it’s La Boheme.
¶ 9
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Seville awaits.
History dawns.
Lionhearts pound the cage.
The world looks on.
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