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Skyward they stand, guardians of the ground –
Marking out a territory, acting as beacons in
Foriegn landscapes. A marker to make for on
Dark, wintry days – casting a soft halogen haze
Over the urban scene and downwards across
The cramped back street stadium. A ghostly
Lure to men in flat caps and boys in scarves.
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Once insdie, they captivate you in a spellbound
Expectancy as the teams emerge, brightly clad
In this drab outside world. Four square, they bloom
From half-life to full power, a glorious illumination,
Reaching out from on high. Their steel skeletons are
Hidden by nightfall – as kids climb them to see more;
Flickering matches strike up from packed terraces.
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Impassive sentinels, making the darkness as light
As day. Good enough for colour telly, they reckon.
The grass a greener shade, the ball a brighter white –
Shirts of gold shimmer across the field; everything
Enhanced by the translucent aura. Final whistle; the
Lights stay bright long after, casting deep shadows
Into silent grandstands. A damp, biting chill descends.
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Today, no longer majestic pylons – just discreet
Lamps on the facia, many times as powerful but
Not as exciting. The floodlit clarion call drew punters
Like moths to a flame, eager for kick off. Now the
Thrill has gone – it’s all very passive, often subdued.
The stadium well-lit, perfectly safe, quite boring
Compared to the fantastic match nights of yore.