Football Poets

football forsaken

there’s an eerie silence as I head off to bed –
the silence is natural
for I’m always the last to settle

but there’s a sense of devastation that permeates the corridors
a sense of damnation and enforced captivity;
there has been no travel
from front door to town;
no shoving out to school
no setting off, to the place of work;
in fact, work has traipsed in, head bowed
to the front room
and set up virtual shop
in a secluded corner;

there has been no traffic
in or out of the pitch above;
no fun, no laughter, for weeks
nor even months now;
and not because, ‘tis out of season –
no, we were very much at that point
where matches counted
and performances mattered;

but it is not formalities
that have brought that final whistle
nor red tape that cemented the pea, so that
it shall not shrill for a long time hence;

nay, it is but an invidious invader
that has slithered into the lungs
of our lucked out society;

accordingly, the bronchial tree of clubs and fixtures
has shut down
for what feels like an eternity;

remedy wise:
ventilators are in too-short supply
and PPE is the new must-have team kit;

unfortunately, until such time
as Covid-19 is controlled
and immunity conquers
will football and normal life be scribed as:
match abandoned

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Late evening walk, in these strange times

Like a gnarled old hand, the spindly tree spread out above me
Stooped over the country lane
Its silhouetted fingers, tickling the hedge-hemmed curious calves

Lying in wait somewhere, hidden and camouflaged –
The accursed covid corsair
Ready to make inroads, to breach boundaries, to infect and infest
To strangle the lungs
Of the desperately unlucky

We want rid
To protect the sick and the infirm; the elderly, the enervated;
To go from all vulnerable – to expurgated

And further
Way down the setting
Of Shankly’s scale
We want rid
To allow the light back into the world of sport
To allow football to re-generate
From the roots upwards and outwards
A footy-synthesis
To illuminate our hearts
To let the spirits soar
And the gems to sparkle

We want transubstantiation
From cowering cocoon
To faithful acolytes
All ready to festoon
Praise aplenty
Happy again
To be the cognoscenti

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Busy as ever?

The nest-builders are as busy as ever….
a delightfully dappled thrush appears at one of my garden pots
checks surreptitiously for danger
instinctively knows I am fastened behind the bars, of toughened glass
he / she selects twigs and dried leaves
tucks them up into their bushel of a beak
and flutters away, with busy, bustling wings
to render and lay foundation, to its al-fresco roost

with my time-rich covid-induced incarceration
I’ll have yet another excuse to long-finger a tidy-up job…
“oh the birds’ll need that”
“the ladybirds land there all the time”
“the dog loves that”
and I’ll easily gravitate, to what I love best…
a plastic-coated bag of wind, scuffed and scored
for wherever it lays, is where the garden is never ignored!

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Social Distancing

Usually, it’s an acerbic reaction
An emphatic ‘bothered’ and ‘bemoaned’
Whence learning of:
“All matches postponed”

But this time around
We nod and agree when it’s intoned
For containment of COVID-19
Is the combat condoned

Coughing or sneezing ‘uncovered’
Is roundly disowned
And the collective goal
Is a virus dethroned

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Postponed by Corona – Limerick

There once was a bug called Corona,
That caused many games to postpona.
Juve-Inter for sure,
Sev’ral other match more,
Not least of which Samp v Verona.

2/3/20
Denys E. W. Jones

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Closed Doors

There’s players on the pitch,
There’s linesmen and a ref,
There’s journalists and TV crews,
As rightly you’d expect.

But there are no supporters,
No cheering, chanting crowd,
The game’s being played behind closed doors,
The fans are all shut out.

The match can go ahead alright,
But folk must stay at home,
And watch it on their telly,
Their tablet or their phone.

Closed doors for Juve-Inter,
And at San Siro too,
Where Milan’s Rossoneri
Take on the Rossoblu.

A virus called Corona
Has left some people dead.
So swiftly steps were taken,
To stem the scourge’s spread.

They’ve closed the universities,
The theatres, the schools,
The panic button has been hit,
And Football’s not immune.

The turnstiles are not clicking,
Stands, terraces are bare,
No flags, no songs, no scarves, no drums,
An eerie atmosphere.

So, are these measures right or wrong,
This lockout good or bad?
I cannot tell, just shake my head,
And find it all so sad.

28/2/20
Denys E. W. Jones

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