Thursday, 17 December 2015

The field of gold

                       The field of gold

Immortalised in time one afternoon in Lisbon

when the sun smiled down upon that field of gold,

upon eleven lads with the blood of Bruce in their veins,

and the wildness of wind swept Scottish hills in their eyes

Framed against the clear blue sky you stood in stark relief

Holding high above your head our dreams, our hopes,

our very hearts in that shimmering, shining, silver cup,

How our tears could have filled that great trophy to overflowing,

tears with their roots in dark, bitter times of hunger and despair

transformed that bright May day to tears of purest joy…


Immortalised in bronze upon the Celtic Way you stand

a beacon for a people, a message from the heart to say

‘This is what you can do if you believe, if you fight,

if you never give up and hold fast to your dreams’

That greatness which you wear so lightly

is dignified when you allow yourself to be little,

to shake a hand, to share a smile with ordinary folk

who will cherish those moments forever,

That is the mark of the man they call ‘Cesar’

Who stepped out onto that field of gold

and led the Celts to greatness.





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