Ibrox 1971
A frigid
mist hangs over the dark city
Covering it
like a funeral shroud,
A point of
light breaks the gloom
Near the
dark ribbon of the Clyde,
A shoddy colosseum,
where gladiators
In blue and green grimly struggle
The baying crowd seethes and sways,
Everything staked
on a winning hand,
Two mighty roars
punctuate the gloom,
No victor’s
laurel for either today
They must
wait till the next time
To settle
their never ending grudge
Torrents of
humanity pour from the scene
A mindless
river pushing ever onwards
Unseen, unheard,
someone has stumbled
A child
clings to a rusting fence for dear life
As the
raging river rushes, crushes past him,
Unaware of
conspiring fate’s pernicious whim,
White handkerchiefs
and anguished cries
Lost shoes
speak mutely on the stairway
Telling of
the fragility of life and hope
A granite policeman,
used to calming brawlers
Carries a covered
bundle from the scene,
Ashen faced,
he mutters over and over,
‘He’s only a little boy, only a child’
Desperate hands
work on those
Caught between
life and death
Then a silence
which shrieks to the heavens
No Billys or
Tims today… just human beings
Suffering their
own Via Dolorosa
Rivalry and
hatred seem tawdry and small
In the face
of such immutable suffering
The great
cranes standing sentinel on the Clyde
Turn away
sadly from the scene
And drip silent
tears into the dark water below
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