This is a rather unsatisfactory piece in my honest opinion. It lacks genuine flow and lightness, rather being dragged down by a lack of rhythm. Anyway, following last week's almost ethereal poem, this is one is grounded in the very earth itself. Back when Middle Park was still around, my father, perhaps of his support for Heidelberg, would never park inside the adjacent parking lot; instead we'd park some distance away, and walk through the then quite neglected Albert Park. Eventually we'd reach the ground, a little oasis of life amidst the neglect.
When we left and moved further north, these cross-country journeys were over, and indeed, made impossible not just by the relocation but also the complete makeover the precinct received. Still though, if you happen to venture down by where the pit lane is, near where we used to live, the earth, perhaps because of the drought or perhaps because of some sort latent memory in the place itself, still has that sandy, uneven, and familiar quality. Many a South fan has made mention that however nice Lakeside is, it's not Middle Park; and that the club was forever changed tangibly and intangibly by the move; and I'd agree with that. It was home after all. Going back there now, even without signposts, I reckon I can still feel the presence of the past, and rather predictably, wonder what will come of the future for South.
over the wasteland
of gravel, grass and sand
Middle Park was home
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