Blue Boys Poem by Jerry Pike

Jerry Pike

Harrow, London, England

Blue Boys



Blue Boys

Frozen in a field of time, grazing grass esteem,
blue boys out to play awhile, Wormwood Scrubs us clean,
smiling for that camera shot, celluloid pretence,
prisoners to Sunday's cool, praying time relents.

Stories when, so long ago, football stole my heart,
every waking weekend friend, crammed into a park,
play as one and win by two, gather up and brim,
ghost reviews of every match, haunt the local inn.

Mud and maybe, fill your boots, getting kicks for free,
money’s still for nothing Mark, bricks to liberty.
Tales erupt in gush and spout, end of season jinx,
first a pub and then a house, hours descend to blinks.

What a banquet spread, laid out, pickles, ham and beer,
crank the music handle faster, nod your rhythms ear,
talk of this, so close we roasted, pals to kingdom come,
just a gang of last years heroes, bringing home the fun.

Filtered through the veins, and working, songs spin out in tongues,
stood around an old piano, breathing life from lungs,
careless chords we wailed together, Cross Of Spancil Hill,
24th of June remembered, horse fairs were his thrill.

Time gone run, and time gone pass us, where’d the blue boys go?
Spancil Hill is done and buried, eighty years ago,
hair as long as last weeks daylight, starred that football dream,
there we lived and there we vanished, grazing grasses team.

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Jerry Pike

Harrow, London, England
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