Time measured in soft-falling drips.
Come, let me mop your brow.
The whistle’s poised beneath His lips,
It’s nearly over now.
The tough-fought game is near its end.
You’re asking me who’s won.
“You did,” I whisper to my friend,
“Go on, go on, my son.”
The dressing room is bathed in haze,
The bath is like a shroud.
The manager has words of praise
And voices them aloud.
No more to lunge at half-seen balls,
All painful knocks are past.
You’re safe now in those tiled walls,
The game is won at last.