A Turnstile Click Away

From a mile off you could see the floodlights Illuminating the dark and brooding Glasgow skyA lighthouse, guiding the people safely home,From every street in Glasgow they came,Each soul, a raindrop adding to the riverFlowing inexorably towards Celtic Park.A small hand seeks the comfort of his father’sSenses sharpened by his first night match,The Gallowgate finds its voice as songsEcho off tenement walls which have seen it all,From strike, strife and Luftwaffe bombs,’What the hell do we care?