Thinking back, I couldn’t see
how God shaped England – he was
just a character on a screen somewhere,
barely even watched by me.
for the birds,
certainly too far away.
Those days, I paced
in smaller shoes, kicking up hours,
kicking off at school –
hesitantly praying some early developer
would be nudged my way
by unseen hands, slipping beneath
lock-tight waistbands that guarded the gap
between what I knew, and that
which I mapped out nightly, kneeling.
Much later I developed feelings,
and as my hands were not yet ruined
I wrote with pen and ink –
yet, no deity delivered
though somehow I still sought
a tossed-off thought I’d had at seven
all jelly-smudged lenses, belief in heaven
brought via rings and playground glances
that somehow develop into
a slow-panning glossed eternity.
We bury disappointment beneath abandonment of faith –
after all, we grow out of shoes