Annagh United

Annagh United

Beneath the Antrim sky, so oft been grey, Where Mourne's blue shoulders guard the northern plain, The red and white stand firm, come wind or spray, On Annagh's humble pitch, where dreams remain.

No floodlit roar of giants, vast and grand, Just boots that scrabble on the well-worn sod, The thud of leather, sharp on frosted sand, And voices loud, raised in the local god Of Saturday – a thermos, pie, and hope, While drizzle weaves its silver, constant thread Around the touchline where the elders grope For memories of goals the young have shed. No silver gleams within a cabinet tall, Yet here, within this soil, this sweat, this sound, Lies something truer than a gilded ball: The quiet pulse of belonging, safe and found.

So raise a glass to Annagh's steady heart, Where football's truest soul refuses to part.