Last night I dreamt of the potato fields again.

The early Sunday mornings, the damp mist creeping over long grass

from the River Rea and finding breathing

space in the surrounding mud of the neglected bank and glistening dew filled

spider webs that criss-cross and weave

through the rusty ailing railings in which many a leather football found its

untimely end.

The Sunday mornings in which my dad would don his early 1970’s style

Aston Villa top, the era of undisguised dejection for many a fan

but in which he dominated the field of play against my Kevin Reeves haircut,

Bert Trautman child-like determination in goal and imagined

Asa Hartford or Willie Donachie ability.

My dad, highly polished boots, unruffled demeanour, a gentle God

until the one on one chance on goal in which if he didn’t get the ball

then he would curse under his breath and go in even harder

the next time. My bare knees battered and bruised.

This was an hour in which I revelled no matter the time of year,

it was the 60 minutes before he went to work,

five shots on goal and then

change round. A competition in which he would invariably

win the knock out cup each week

and my penance for having no side

in the final was to stick my hands into the coldest bucket of water

with a whimper befitting an eight year old with pretensions

of playing against the Villa or Birmingham City.

The potato fields at the side of the River Rea, past my Uncle Jock’s

house, the large entrance at the end of Cecil Road never had a set of goal posts

placed deep within the frozen mud of winter

or lush green grass of early summer mornings, instead

the alien sight of enormous rugby posts taunting me and

as they stretched to the dark clouds above us in which threatened

to pour down on us as my dad would never seek shelter.

The River was a constant friend, sometimes followed

down towards the large open space of further

exploration and in which grass grew as high as a ten year old boy,

easy to play soldiers in but wasn’t as exciting as Highbury Park

and its large ocean, filled with treasures of midges, newts and the

odd rat scuffling and sweating as it lifted its bloated decaying body

over the knotted and fallen tree, the rat

lived seemingly for many a year.

I only ever saw a fish once in the river,

The pollutant that lingered from the days when the factories

stood just off the Dogpool Road, perhaps putting paid

to the idea of that much nature flourishing

so close to our home.

I saw the shopping trolley in which eventually became part of a dam

We tried to build, not realising the damage it would cause

If we had been clever enough to succeed.

The dens we built, covered in slime, grass, mud and

guarded by the children we were and I

wouldn’t have changed a moment.

The best of times though were being on the end

of a furious shot aimed at my head by my dad,

his Aston Villa top resplendent in the Birmingham morning air, the boots in which

I cleaned and the joy of going home…

Tattered, shattered, bruised and happy.

Ian D. Hall 2013