A turnstile click away

A turnstile click away

From a mile off you could see the floodlights

Illuminating the dark and brooding Glasgow sky

A lighthouse, guiding the people safely home,

From every street in Glasgow they came,

Each soul, a raindrop adding to the river

Flowing inexorably towards Celtic Park.

A small hand seeks the comfort of his father’s

Senses sharpened by his first night match,

The Gallowgate finds its voice as songs

Echo off tenement walls which have seen it all,

From strike, strife and Luftwaffe bombs,

‘What the hell do we care?’ is the refrain,

But they care, by God they care!

This is their team, their colours, their club.

Paradise is a breathless turnstile click away

The multitudes coalesce, become as one,

The great cathedral of football shudders,

As the team appears; gladiators in green,

The emerald turf glistens under the lights,

It has been like this for a century and more,

Since McCallum’s goal first made them roar,

Here Maley, Doyle and Quinn fought the foe,

Gallagher’s feints left defenders chasing ghosts

McGrory, sure of eye and fierce of countenance

Rippled the net more times than memory could recall,

Stein and Tully, Evans too made their mark,

In good times and bad the fans endured,

Stories of heroes and villains are retold

To wide eyed children, food for their Celtic souls

The Gemmell shot, the Johnstone dribble,

Imperious McNeill holding aloft the glittering prize,

Murdoch, a Napoleon in green and white,

Stein, limping away, like a proud father,

McStay, McGrain and others picked up the torch

Carried it proudly into a bold new future,

So too a dreadlocked Swede who grew to love

The green as much as they grew to love him,

The little boy who took his father’s hand

On a dark night so many years ago

Now he walks his own child down those streets

Smiling to see that same wonder he once felt,

Shining in those bright, young eyes.