Should have been your boy

back from the game

bag of fish and chips

grin as wide as the Mersey

drunk on youth and sunshine 

still living every pass shot tackle

as he settles down in front of the box

him and the old man each with a can

to watch it all over on Match Of The Day.

 

Instead, it was coppers

neighbours, friends, the sad-eyed priest

it was sorry for your loss

it was the space at the table

the silence, the empty room

it was the doctor giving pills to kill the pain

knowing nothing would ever bring him back again

it was your husband fallen in on himself 

it was grief you thought would end you.

 

And it was reporters hunting headlines

papers printing tales they knew were lies

it was official cover-ups and smears

it was the start of twenty-five years

of banging on the gates of justice

demanding the truth, an apology

for what they did to your boy 

and the other boys and the girls and the men

it was learning to walk on

 

knocking on the gates of justice

with the families knocking with you

and the clubs knocking with you

and a city knocking with you

and hope in your broken heart.

 

 

© Steve Pottinger 15 April 2014