The Quietness of the Kipper Season
¶ 1
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Watching the sky change from Petticoat Tower,
on the top floor a widower
scans the gold of morning, hassle of twilight,
glimpses the holy land as old animosities
settle over gin and lemonade
with the old boy from the ground floor
with the frame. Past rivalries fade
as we look down on the metropolis,
running over memory’s lines and points,
distant rays lighting up Cliff’s face
at South Bermondsey after Millwall v Fulham
in February sun after the quietness
of the Kipper Season, staring down the track
following another hard-fought nil nil at The Den.
I really enjoyed this poem. Wistful and tender.
Yes.