I take my son to football practice
on Saturdays at Elthorne Park.
He’s a presence without a form,
and slips shin deep into the mud.
The mist across the pitch has
lost interest and doesn’t want to hang about.
Stirred by a rumpus, all eyes, including mine,
turn towards a tiny man, aged three,
bobbing ball knee-to-knee, flipping-kicks,
from head to toe, he’s a dandy footballer
in the making.
Good God! Could this be the Second Coming?
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