One day from under these floodlights
the sun will rise in early spring,
set like the memories you’ve left
in gathering blue over the river.
An extra layer will go, light jackets
the order of the day at some T-junction
of path and water where no-one knows
your name and you have nothing to offer.
Now, in the darkness of the ground, lit
for the night in unrelenting cold,
we have only the season’s doubts,
form tables and transitory odds,
winding runs of unreadable note
and mid-season suspension of belief,
for the team, in all that we know.