Like the Caffrey’s

 

Like the Caffrey’s

 

I’m 64 – a no score draw – what’s that worth

on your coupon then? Buggered if I know,

shrug, pick up my pen and go.

Words, music – they don’t amount to much for most

or me - it’s nothing overstated, no hollow boast –

I wish you well – feel like it’s nothing rotten

I’m just over it; want to be labelled long forgotten

glad our paths diverge and might never cross

again - give me ceaseless obscure and forever lost.

You’d call me soft – if you had another chance –

Yesterday, Sainsbury’s I crossed trollies

with some old flat-capped blighter,

maybe 80, he gets no second glance from me,

I’m lost in dreams, you see?

But there he is, barring my way as if to say,

‘No Quarter’. That’s ‘Houses of the Holy’ to you,

and damn fine, it is too. I doubt you knew,

but he did, ‘Hi, kid,’ says he, cordially, ‘Remember me?’

And all those years swept away, for a second –

looking him up and down, I reckoned

I did – teaching, in my first year – cross country,

how we trained them, snow, rain or shine,

we exchanged a few words, some shy smiles.

And now I hear you bought yourself a pile,

Alresford, grade 2 listed - 1.5 Million pounds worth -

but we’ll all still end up holed in the dirt.