The Beautiful Game
acrylic / canvas

There was no life outside that
patch of green.
No homework.
No French verbs.
No summons for stealing apples
off that tree in Snobsville.

Just us the lads
and cousin Betty
before her time,
sweating and swearing
leaping over ankle cracking kicks
skidding past an outstretched hand.

To blast the ball past Billy Johnstone
whose father didn't even drink
would make the day fill up like Christmas
sweeter than a first in English,
than a kiss from Harry's older sister.

Legends 'neath a Scottish sky
heroes by the factory wall
a timeless crucible of safety.
No cares inside that patch of green
. . . a bloodied field of joy.