The line I unwound ties me to a
football ground 460 miles away.
Where Chic hooked one over
the wall leaving Martin scratching air.
Clearances sclaffed. Albert ghosting
into the box to finish.
Folding plastic seats where once
there was a terrace and a shed.
The university wagged its tower
at me over essays unwritten.
Sometimes, howling through a
ground glass throat, or in falling
snow smothering the game in
the first half, or freshly hoarse and half
cut from the anti poll tax march.
Gossiping contracts, transfers,
players’ gambling debts, petty crime,
pigeons, samurai swords and
told they were Pele.
The line stretches from the early 90s.
Now I’m thumb scrolling for
updates, insights on Twitter,
tapping refresh a thousand times,
clinging on till the blue boxes turn yellow
unchanged. Or not. BBC Alba feeds and
choppy YouTube highlights.
Til I can reel it in back to the source again.
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