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.


  1. Getting a bit wistful in your old age, Tommy?

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