(Three years on from Rosenborg)

I’m here to you tell it’s over, to tell you

this is it, and thanks for the good times.

But seriously, this is it. Then you left me.

I watched as the open door wobbled

in the breeze of your departure,

and stared at the cardboard box,

with Naked Wines on the side

with naked memories inside

jumbled and jarred

randomly lifted from dreams

crumbled and lost

when Rangers beat Celtic.

I knew then it was over

but continued in denial

for weeks, until the season ended.

I knew then you’d

be here with our things /

the flight tickets to Oslo,

the Trondheim room service bill,

the dodgy Viking hat,

the Es-Es flag, the cuckoo clock

and the beer mats we shared

across the best tables, everywhere

anywhere, as long as it was out there.

It’s been three years, noise

and laughter, tough shifts

and long, glorious trips since

Rosenborg, since we topped it,

never to better it, unless

we won the Cup, like

that was ever going to happen.

I watch you sit with them

from Aberdeen, Glasgow, Edinburgh.

I want you to be with me, be attentive

but you tell me, I’m not qualified.

You’ll speak to me again when I am.

I watch you count the co-efficient

without me, talk down my chances.

I should slam the door on you but

I can’t do it. I know you’ll be back.

I leave the door wedged open

with a UEFA Cup Travel Guide 16/17.