Last night I dreamt of the potato fields again.
The early Sunday mornings, the damp mist creeping over long grass
from the River Rea and finding breathing
space in the surrounding mud of the neglected bank and glistening dew filled
spider webs that criss-cross and weave
through the rusty ailing railings in which many a leather football found its
untimely end.
The Sunday mornings in which my dad would don his early 1970’s style
Aston Villa top, the era of undisguised dejection for many a fan