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Smiles through the gate - Written by Chris Towers

The sun was as pale as weakest custard,

but the smiles through the gate were radiant.

Each smile was felt as almost personal,

like meeting a small gathering of friends.

 

I grimaced as the cold reached innards,

body parts January likes to haunt,

 as Worksop moved the ball across the line.

It was like pass the parcel, to feet.

 

Placing a football between the goal posts,

they celebrated in loud yellow shirts.

I heard kerfuffle from red faced players,

With ruddy, raw faces in the grassy mud.

 

The goal broke the hush of a library,

as players hurtled words to each other,

like calls from feisty farmers to their dogs.

Car lights from the old Sheffield Road flickered.

 

Flicker, flicker, red and white, red, and white,

flashing brightly between the leaf shorn trees.

The ball sprayed from the centre circle,

to fast wingers, running hard down the flanks,

 

like mice scuttling around the skirting board,

nibbling goals little cheese grabs in the dark.

Sheffield found a late, late winner, scoring 

with as much joy as at the Etihad. 

 

The spectators shared 'see you around' looks,

shuffling to the old turnstiles, jangling keys,

heading for cars and buses in a dash,

rationing smiles in the cold of the eve.