Open the cupboard,
Find the winter coat
On the hanger at the back.
At the bottom,
Is a poly bag,
Full of seldom worn hats,
To find the scarf,
Last and lonely.
You raise it to your nose,
Stir the memories,
Hoping that it hasn’t been washed.
That the good luck clings,
Of a deflected last minute winner.
Or it has been washed,
Bad luck disappearing like a relegated rival.
Trainers are replaced by boots,
The change in weather will waste,
Vintage suede uppers.
Now where is the gloves,
That will be lost,
In Dingwall, Motherwell or on the bus?
The walk to the ground,
Sees kids weighed down,
Hats, scarfs and so much wrapping;
They could have been delivered by Amazon.
Still some wear the replica kit,
Refusing to entertain the thought of a jacket,
But the always worn scarf,
Now has a use
Other than unwavering support.
Words hang in the air,
The pace that you walk is quicker,
Pubs encourage you to ignore their faded fronts,
And have a yellow homely glow.
Its no longer the weather to hang about outside,
Discussing your team.
You dream that the turnstile
Will bring warmth beyond.
The smell of salty beef,
Replaces flat fizzy drinks,
Scolding lips with expletives –
Not heard since your full back,
Played their striker on that time.
The goalie tries not to be distracted,
By the crisp pokes dancing in the air,
Their shine enhanced,
By the floodlights,
On in the first half.
The cold and dark is forgotten,
If your home with three points,
Trip to the chippy,
To warm the insides:
Fish supper, single sausage.
Hand in pocket,
To pass over the cash,
Then you remember.
Look outside and see the bus pass,
With your gloves on board.