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Coast

Jon Tait

Tuesday, March 31st, 2009

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 Goalnets rolled out of the dark innards
of an upturned wooden fishing boat
with doors in the stern like a hut,
as long grasses sway with a steady swish
on top of sand dunes by lonely sentries
of old World War Two pill boxes,
players calls filling the large blue sky
broken by castles on the horizon;
smoking kippers in an old stone building
in the tight narrow streets of a
fishing village sloping down
to the empty long beaches of
driftwood, orange rope, shells,
crabs in rock pools & the
white breakers low roar rolling in
off the grey North Sea,
a bracing wind wobbling the ball
in the air like an egg
as we play the sons of our fathers opponents
from old black & white team snapshots
the sideburns, moustaches, beards & long hair
like a 60s rock band on tour are gone
but the names remain the same,
the sad eerie moan of a foghorn
ticking off the generations
steady as a metronome.

Notes

Typo in first submission!

Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/coast/