Ian McMillan

The World Cup's a shining poem where the images sing and the lines are long, painted on the grass like words on a page.

Behind each song, each anthem, a million stories and more.

And the penalty spot is a whiteful stop.

Each game fades to memory, played on a stage.

The World Cup whirling through our dreams.

And the penalty spot is a white full stop where the poem or the game can change.

Time passes, time passes, time scores.

Across the map, from coast to coast, this is the summer I love the most.

The moon is a football, high in the sky, like a free kick learning how to fly.

I'll send you this poem.

It came in off the post, expressed the inexpressible in every line.

And this poem is the gift of extra time.

Well, I think I'm fickle.

So I think whoever's winning, like most football fans, I'll be supporting.

And in the end, you'll think, well, I think that England are going to win.

But then because my dad is, as I said that, tapping me on the shoulder, I also think that Scotland are going to win.

So we're at the World Cup final and it's all happening.

Something, something, the teams are grappling behind me.

I can feel my dad tapping me on the shoulder.

And as I get 90 minutes older...