Mr Lawrence

pulling the crowds,
on Wintery days,
huddled in stalls..
their eyes on the ball..
But now, his distance
is limited, to the dining
hall, and on sunny days,
squash and biscuits by
the pergola..
he hears the cheers,
and the thrill of it all,
tearing down the pitch
to strike another goal..
Mr Lawrence - his
smoking jacket, on top
of his clothes..
inside his head
where the whistle blows..
fine figure of man,
who's had it all,
now time has struck him
in his stead..
it's a struggle
to get out of bed..
he forgets most
of what he said..
and drifts
home and away
in the interval
faces, places..
lost in decades,
all the games
Mr. Lawrence has
played ..
cheering fans
singing in the
stands..whisper
in his dreams,
as spirits sway
Slip stream.

.. ladies still pay
complement to the
football pro.
in discrete.
magenta flowered dresses,
and mother of pearl..
behind horn rimmed
glasses, wrinkles
and age spots grow,
like ancient secrets
...one that maiden
Aunts are reluctant
to tell..
charisma..
doesn't fall..
as we grow old...
it's still Mr Lawrence,
the Football hero.