There is a fine drizzle here,

A typical post summer indication of Autumn blues,

   I walk childlike - glad of the company of a spirited woman

that age has no unpleasantry to sponsor. 

 

     The dusk has Starship Ferguson keen to paint 

new lay-lines and then;

   an echo of young stealing the air

with soccer talk steals too, my own solemnity

of history I mourn; has passed.

 

     The trainer be a new Brian Glover,

the team are upon a bird known Kes,

   the lay-lines sparkle and so too,

  my shrine of all things forgotten. 

 

     The bairns are soaked to the skin

as the football passes considerately brave,

  their expiration of breath draws clouds - like I and

  my brother once did, like many upon an

estate in Manchester known Scot.

 

     Thier ruddy glow warms my soul

as I consider an eighties chant of a football enthusiast,

Man U gets a mention, Pele too, Ronaldo and 

I scream inwardly; 'What about Dalglish?'

 

     In our homes, our children yearn for football speak,

our children yearn for skipping rope,

     'but are considered only arcade games,

         a disposition and taking of spirit that never encourages warmth.'

 

     I am here before the lay-lines,

I look to those above now knowing of our sorrow,

  In Rothiemay 'they' still are, children,

     'in Manchester, away!'

 

     There are no cities here a parent wants,

there are no arcade games too,

     'only an understanding, 'we' wish all, are Rothiemay.'

 

Michael J Waite Friday 22nd of September 2023. 

     dedicated to Shona, Rothiemay, and a growing conscience to bring back the love.