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Roots

nick buckle

Thursday, April 10th, 2008

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 I feel like a pensioner
now the pensioners have all gone.
Shut my eyes and travel back
to the roads I once walked on.
Led like a giant python
by old bill holding hands.
The smell of burning onions
pumping out of burger vans.
To where a corrugated iron temple
rising above the mere spectator.
Clunk through the under sixteens
to the sound of Liquidator.
Take my seat in what was the benches
but is now all plastic and chrome.
And as the ref blows for kick off
it still feels good to be at home.

© nick.buckle.2008

Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/roots/