There is a chill, a feeling of the super-natural

when I hear your anthem being sang by the citizens

of the flag, resplendent in red and white, the colours

of victories past and battle hardened men,

of women, proud, noble and strong, perhaps by design

the strongest of them all, but the ones with rose-like cheekbones

standing to attention when something humorous happens,

the ones for whom the tears fall silently as justice is done.

 

The first stirrings of your anthem were audible on a Wednesday night

and whilst I already had my national

heroes to whom I swore allegiance too, Captain Bell and

his merry band, finished second behind you in my first full season

as a Boy Blue Babe in arms, the quiet

(When you walk)

Choir like mass rumblings of your anthem as it begins to fill

the skies over Merseyside and fill the eyes

with tears for the women who laugh with

their rose bud cheeks, you cannot help but be moved

(through a storm)

and join in with respect, your own heart touched.

 

Your early battles with King Kenny leading the line

meant that I learned about King Kenny the first

and what the measure of Shankly still means

to all as they

(hold your head up high)

ask you stay a while, regardless of your origin,

regardless of your talent and small stature

as long as you understand what it means

to be part of an island and

(don’t be afraid of the dark)

are prepared to fight for its survival

as it withstands the crashing, creeping insanity,

the pressure of a million sneers, jeers and rank hypocrisy ,

just that that you realise

(at the end of the storm)

that the future is together and not apart from society.

 

I sing your anthem out loud as much as I do

wish and pray at times

for the blue moon to rise permanently in the east,

I am not ashamed of my duel hope, my jewel in the crown

for somewhere between the two lands of

humble Shankly and the memory of the fedora hat,

(there’s a golden sky)

one filled with promise and truth,

one that I will take care of and defend

to my dying breath and all I hear

(is the sweet silver song of the lark-)

ing about of children happy and free.

To those with mockery in your actions, I implore

Walk on, for you will never get what it means

to shed a tear at the names of the fallen,

for high above the city skyline, the murmur becomes a chant

driven loud and clear, that when the island nation

takes your hand and tells you

You’ll Never Walk Alone.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015