Saturday mornings are looking different.
Fog has fallen upon the football pitches,
covering every inch like a cathedral train.
A delicious wispiness coruscates diamantes
in the early rain; flares of white paint
streak up each wing
into exploding corner flags of colour.
Nets are hung over posts like bridal veils.
Excited, barking dogs chase their tails,
rallied by the crowds embarking
upon the biggest fixture of the season.
I’m biting my fingernails
and drifting into daydreaming
and the reason, for once, isn’t alcohol;
I think I’m falling in love with football.
Usher us in to the cathedral of dreams,
a wedding march to welcome the teams
and a piper booked from Aberdeen
because teuchters have Herculean lungs.
Confetti showers from the back seats,
commentators screech from their hymn sheets
and three points is like the honeymoon suite –
or a trophy when all is said and done.
Run rings round fingers
and tie ribbons round silver anniversaries.
A beauty spot appears from twelve yards out
every time there’s a penalty.
You may kiss the bride or the man sat next to you
and I can see you’re worried, confused, appalled,
but I’m not losing my faculties
or sniffing cheap aerosols –
as a friend, please comprehend
I’ve fallen in love with football.