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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