Dull,ageless cranks and oily turns. A cold steel
push,anti-clockwise in anticipation, expectation
every timebut different then, off Florence Place
off Dunkeld Road,in cold skies, and bright days.
The bustlingblues in ear shot of Muirton aces.
A bustlingAsda’s now. Terraces of sell by dates
pitch views hindered by pristine aisles, walls
of soups, cereals and bargains to be netted.
There,the turnstile my dad showed me, the gate to
beinggrown up, following him, to follow the Saints.
Inthrough a gap. A cupboard door. A secret passage
blisteredblue, a Tardis stripped bare to a briar of steel.
A softputty face waiting, trapped in full moon cheer.
The murmurof passwords, an exchange of promises.
Me,squeezed close into legs, the big lift into acontraption.
A timemachine whirring into action, releasing me,
intoa new world, the land of my future dreams,
heartaches,and glories sunk into a bottomless heart.
To betrailed for years, through cupboard doors, images
on a loop,seasons lost in the sunlit absence of him
handingdown the password so when the crank
and turnsof a McDiarmid Tardis pulls my son with me
intothe briar tangle, the turnstile lifts our respect
towardsthe rows, of my Dad, sitting with your memories
andin front, Willie Coburn with Drew Rutherford
up in thecorner, amongst a throng of ageless Saints
on awooden bench, white squared and numbered.
The perfectview brought from the old ground, loyalty
stitched in to therespectful wave of unfurled scarves.
Their souls steadfastin the crank of the turnstile forever.
©Copyright 2016 - all rights reserved by St Johnstone Football Club
Registered in Scotland 7629
Unless otherwise stated all photographs on this site are ©Perthshire Picture Agency and may not be used without permission.