I’ve never been afraid of ageing,
but I have been guilty of comparing
the years of my bones
to what position on a football pitch
they could be the peak age for.
When I turn 34 in December
I’ll be a third choice keeper,
signed to fill the English quota of a top six club.
Long gone are the days my legs were made
for last ditch tackles, overlaps,
or, further back still, being called upon
to casually sprint on to an over hit through ball.
I can’t wait until I’m old enough to be the kit man,
to run my fingers across a shirt I barely remember
and allow the future to flourish.
© Carl Burkitt 2020