The grass he used to preside over
Got churned up by the boots of his players
But the grass he looks at now
Has only flowers.
His back garden is carefully tended to
Now that he’s got all this time
And the smell of grass reminds him
Of how it used to be.
Him in charge giving the orders
Players nodding and doing as they were told
Making them feel like Pele
But always bringing them back down to earth.
Along the borders run the beds
No crowds, no masses
Just still mud and petals and stalks
So quiet you can only hear the wind.
It’s all so idyllic
But not to him
Paradise would be the ball and players
Running over that perfect grass.
The ground was his garden
This space now reminds him
Of all those times now gone
And reminds him this is all space.