The moonlight dribbler

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 The Strand was a cut-through street,
unadopted by the rate-payers,
pot holed, pitted, pock-marked,
forgotten by Tarmac layers.
Houses were big, gardens once grand,
with flint and dry stone walling,
but no lights to guide you home at night
the police presence was appalling.
I walked through there every evening,
after rigorous football practice,
broken bottles, burnt out cars
and the sweet scent of Moroccan hashish.
I’d whistle my way up those hundred yards,
in the pitch black, expecting the worst,
my heart-beat , beating, kidnap fearing,
waiting to be the next Patty Hearst.
I wasn’t the next Pat Jennings,
Pat Nevin or even Patio Door,
but I can still run rings round puddles at night
and keep the ball from the Hooded Claw.


Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/the-moonlight-dribbler/