No, he was not the Empire’s choice,
with desert death, in ill-judged wars.
For forty years he lent his voice
to football scores, impartially,
once shopping’s storms left calm, then tea,
a sweet meat spread we called ‘polony’.
‘Bologna’ should have been its name.
My geography grew from the game
where Scotland sang as strange as Rome,
Hearts and Celtic, Motherwell,
wild Tranmere Rovers, whose name fell
to comics’ jokes, whose boots kick on.
I listened for my favourites, Spurs.
Then Grandad’s pools came up. His prize?
Fifty-five pounds. No Jags, no furs.
James Alexander Gordon, thanks
for each done day, rough, ripe with sun,
each evening we thought lost, then won.
Alison Brackenbury
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Alison Brackenbury would be pleased to hear them.
