Leave a comment on verse 2 0
The Angels’ wings hang heavy; we’re hammered
by East End teachers of the finer points.
Our fearless keeper keeps them out
till their flame-haired wunderkind
takes him out: clatters him, shatters him,
splatters him onto a stretcher,
to a hospital cot of pain, hobbling rehab.
Leave a comment on verse 3 0
The surgeons’ scalpels do their work,
physios fix his deformed physique;
hard work, courage, lead him back
between the posts, harsh ghosts
of flailing forwards sow dark doubts,
seeds of fear that leech the skills.
Leave a comment on verse 4 0
He’s not the same. And yet
he makes the first team spot his own.
In truth, the money’s gone and no-one else
will bear that cross. And with his help
we make the bottom spot our own.