Who grieves for Jimmy Greaves?

Me, in the memory of foot stamping cold

on the terraces in flares, snotty nosed

in the early seventies

walking from Walthamstow,

a dedicated crowd trudging to the ground. 

 

Me, for my own self struggling with a career,

seeing cigarette smoke rising to a grey sky,

the threat and promise of goals

often nothing but a plunge of dead hands into pockets

and unaware tears joining the flow spilling out

of the ground like an open prison

to watch Match of the Day

on black and white telly all over again.;