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Subbuteo Days by Chris Towers

“This month I reflect on the game of Subbuteo something of a passion for fans of a certain age although perhaps all ages still play the game, it certainly evokes. But somehow the look of the teams was always more interesting than the actual game. But it did allow for hours of fun, with many teams and other accessories to make the game come alive, in the front lounge.”

The table spread to be the Wembley turf,
from the sugar bowl and mats to the wings,
with a pitch bright as the fruit of limes,

and I was Brazil, yellow, blue with green,
and you were England in the whitest white
of painted plastic, finished with a sheen.

We filled the table with biscuit, fingers,
Peru in White with the reddest of sash,
taken to Lima where the free kicks bent, 

total football by the grandfather clock,
with its tick as slow as the day was long,
under the dazzle of  dining room lights.

Your tangled skin,  sticky with super glue as
bread and wafted smells of butter waffles
drifted from a kitchen warmed with  tea.

Now Watching Sheffield in your red and black,
beanie bobbled ,you smile to remember
those Subbuteo days of aching wonder,
with by gone  dreams of those Saturdays lost.