Leaving the baby in his cot, she ran
up two flights of stairs, the smell of the cake
warming the whole house, hoping that she can
open the door silently and then take
a look at her nine year old football fan
without him being aware she is there.
And so she does. And sees her little man
bouncing on her cushion in the cool night air.
And inside her something breaks, and she can
see that her lad will one day be leaving.
Something breaks with a feeling she can’t stand,
but can understand. It needs no grieving.
Looking out over Goldstone Bottom she
can see he can belong here and be free.
The sash window is two bright squares of light,
wedged two inches open to let the sound
billow up from the floodlit Goldstone Ground
where history was made that late spring night.
The lad at the window soaks up the sights
and sounds, can’t feel the cold glass he leans on.
His knees don’t feel the embroidered cushion.
And the Albion win, to his delight.
He’s completely unaware that leaning
on the velvet door-curtain behind him
is his Mum. She’ll never have to remind him.
Such memories teach a lad to belong.
Her heart wishes him great worlds to roam,
believing that belonging will always bring him home.