In my dreams They skim across the turf, Like white swans, Weaving patterns with the ball of brown leather. Mackay with chest puffed out, strong and hard Blanchflower threading the ball through enemy lines To the Welsh wizard, Jones Who turns on a sixpence, Leaving the defender flat on his back. The ball floats into the box The crowd lurches forward as one, Willing the burly Smith to plant it into the net. It groans as the ball is punched away by a desperate goalkeeper, It spins high into the sky And for a moment, It is lost in the glare of the floodlights But one man keeps his eye firmly on the ball The tall, noble Norman leaps into the air And we hear the thud as he heads the ball back From whence it came, Thousands cheer and then weep with wonder As the Ghost, White, appears from nowhere To cosset it with his right and flick it with his left Into the path of Greaves who turns to acknowledge the roar Even before it crosses the line. He runs to the centre circle, His hand outstretched, to thank The mighty centre half Who stands like a sentry at the castle gate All in white – white shirt, white shorts, white socks – Apart from the cockerel sewn in blue onto his heaving chest, Which encases the throbbing heart That now beats no more Except, In my dreams.