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