Editor Christopher Writes – #PoemADayForAYear: 13/10/15

Here is a poem.

The memory of half-sunny afternoons

as a child hang as out of reach

as the bulbous conkers I tried

to grasp with chubby woolen fingers,

jumping and landing with a squelch

on still wet patches of leaves underfoot.

After jumping and missing

and jumping and missing

I give up and wait for my friends,

who have scampered up the trees,

with a Mr Grifton, who would have been

104 today. Eventually they return to still

sodden earth and share their bounty with me.

We walk with purpose through the maze

of roads between the memorials

of people dead before our birth

until we reach the big, chipped yellow

gate. Again, my friends start to scramble up

trees and get foot holds in the wall until

they take their seats, looking over Gigg Lane,

the roar of a thousand fans heralding their arrival.

That roar was not for me as my hands clasped

two poles on the gate and I peered through

the neglected iron, trying to gaze upon

Keily and Gray and Patterson and Swailes.

For the next 90 minutes, I did not even see

the flaked paint crushing against my

thick winter gloves or feel jealous

that my friends had the pick of the view.

All that mattered was being there, part of it,

in some small way. Outside yet there.

At least as I remember it.

All I really have is the memory of

of passing on the memory

the shell of the story still dangling from

the tree, still just out of reach.

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