I heard them curse the lack of silverware,
those diehard fans from lonely Ross-on- Wye,
still yearning hopelessly for football’s heir.
I gazed upon the concrete bridge to Skye,
that distant island ‘rescued’ from the brink,
no longer counted in with Man and Wight.
I dreamt of Agincourt again to drink
the stirring sight of some forgotten knight,
astride a snow-white stallion, pawing earth.
I smelled and smelled the grassy dales
where Wordsworth roamed and realised, with little mirth,
that custard is not solely made by Bird’s.