Our stadium of the light-a stony front street
With the byre and army hut as goal posts.
No stands or crowds –only broken concrete
Did we exist at all? Or were we hidden ghosts.
The battered pig's bladder floated upwards
Disturbing nesting swallows. No whistles
And the World Cup has started. The ball is
amongst the clutching hands, feet and heads.
Difficult to control like a balloon wanting to be free
During the Christmas rhyming that year
Our Johnny Funny collected the money in
Old Aunt Cassie's frying pan.
We had three pounds fifteen and six.
Enough for a new leather O'Neill's number three.
And we never used a pig's bladder again.