by Tom Cannon
I can almost smell September
In February it was just a dream, perhaps part of legend
The old hands down at the club spoke in reverence of that month
In sweltering pre-season sun the words didn’t mean much as you ran the 400s
Even less thought was given to faded photographs on clubhouse wall, or tattered flags
Winter chill slowly fading those Antarctic gales diminished and now thoughts turn to September
The month of fresh cut grass and older player quips gone quiet a finals is their diet
Wanting that last finale – the swan song dreamed of all season long
The younger blokes think it’s easy and it comes around every year
Till they see the stares and realise September is all that matters – jobs and wives on hold
Tom Cannon is a footballer, swimmer, lawyer and poet.
Getting a bit wistful in your old age, Tommy?