Any Winter Saturday In Nineteen Seventy

multi-coloured, sweet, cloying battenberg
taking away the bitter taste of defeat
it’s yellow and pink uniformity
In sharp contrast to the soft curves of the settee
putting ones and two’s and crosses
next to the selections on the pools
a dirty yellow stain hangs over the chair
where my father coughs and splutters on his tea

blacks and whites and greys glow from the TV
as the radio-phonic workshop of the BBC
spins its weird and haunting tones
at the child sat wide eyed staring at the screen
then we all grit our teeth to keep out the dust
that gathers and swirls in clouds from John Wayne’s horse
rushing from the scene of a savage, bloodless, massacre
before the gentle soothing of Eric and little Ern

praying with an intensity that the nuns would respect
for parents to somehow lose track of time
absorbed as always in the boring news
delivered by old men in suits and ties
one eye on the traitor clock
that edges like warm molasses
to the magic hour and the rousing tune
of Match Of The Day beyond bed time

“just the first match – then to bed”
and even for a little man
the tears well with thanks
and the rush of anticipation
at watching long haired heroes
in tight shorts and sapping mud
perform their brutal ballets
in a thirty minute condensation

if I were to step into that picture
from where my life has taken me since
I would marvel at the simplicity
the raggle-taggle homeliness
the dull colours and the frugal tastes
and I would wish a longing wish
that time hadn’t moved on so fast
leaving so much of what we loved in the past