That Beautiful Game

Putney Bridge, we met,
on our very first date;
both sixteen, but him –
he was going on twenty-six.

He was late, and he reeked
of Old Spice, as he kissed me
on the cheek. I’d thought
he’d stood me up –

shades of Sandy Shaw’s
‘Boy Don’t Come’ running
through my mind; tears,
streaming down my face.

He wiped them on his sleeve.
Said I looked nice...
even with my ‘panda eyes’.
What’s that they say
about ‘love being blind’?

Hand-in-hand, we strolled
through Bishop’s Park...him
talking football all the way...
and we never did quite make it
to Frankie’s party.

Ended up outside Craven Cottage;
no Lillywhites that night.
‘Such a shame’, he’d said,
but he scored, all right;
albeit in extra time.