Damp grass on never ending nights,
holds new born dew and fading light,
Mud crusted on knees and cooling limbs,
But I stay soft, no ache tonight

I curve the ball like Becks,
Left-footed and balanced on a blade,
Crystal clear instincts focus
I know to practice, practice, practice.

On brick estates at twilight
boys, abundant as the stars
bounce footballs home
bathed in friendship’s light
and gaze to dawn to
practice, practice, practice.

The rhythm masks deep new wounds
as they are opened fresh
I feel no pain as yet,
but no father casts a healing mesh
from dreams to life,
so practice, practice, practice.

So arcing passes soothe me,
hip-shift dummies and nut-meged brothers
come easily,
then slip away
as dad cannot see me; so
practice, practice, practice.

Grandad twice looked on,
glued to the touchline
Flat cap and pipe of course
and witnessed at last
a goal for my life,
no need tonight to
practice, prcatice, practice.

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