I looked to the streets, the bars, the Bingo halls;
the Legion, the betting shop, the fields
of Anfield Road.
I listened for a solitary voice
whispering my name
in the massed throng of the Spion Kop.
I felt the spirit of Shankly passing through me,
and the man I became beheld the boy I was
with the man who was my father,
whose life and death I saw as a flag embroidered
with his dreams: a huge tapestry of hopes, passed
from hand to hand among his family and his friends.
I recalled his final breath misting a silver mirror;
a final exhalation. I sensed a parting of the clouds,
divined a shifting in the stars.
Then, as daylight faded, I heard from the river
a murmur of one man talking
and many more laughing,
and I felt the spirit of my father
passing through me.