These are both about going to see things. I am a little disappointed with the second half of both of them. Hope that helps!
BRIXTON
The nights we squeezed our neat selves in and out
Past touts and t-shirts laid out flat on stone
Like cheap street art, as puffed up talent scouts
Talked loud and crass at back, we’d let our bones
Turn gradually to looser lines than we,
The usual stiff squad, had believed we could.
On that slight, sticky slope, we learnt to free
Our steady feet of clay from where they stood.
So many - mainly men, guitars, I know,
I know. So many, though, that stay in mind.
Some soared, some shook, some spun, some were all show,
But those who were all heart left most behind.
They’ve lift us gently, guide us back to earth.
That was the best of youth, for what it’s worth.
TWICKENHAM
An Irish boy bedecked in English cap
Betrays his blood for glory, flits amidst
The drunken cars becalmed, caught in the gap
Between a pride and shame, though neither fit.
He prays for small things, sometimes small things do
Take place. The rest is fate, at best, he knows.
This English roar, this cross of blood to rue,
This red-faced cheek, a fake, a shameless pose.
I’m there for Simon Geoghegan, wildly wired
And born for Bill McLaren’s golden prose,
for Rory Underwood, a pistol fired
through memory, whose bullet never slows.
Collisions barely left their mark; instead
Unbroken lines of half-blood kings who sped.
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