Football Poets

On the eve of the big match

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 So here we are
On the eve of
The Big Match
Twitching curtains
Shuffling of feet
Behind the scenes
Nervous coughs and sneezes
Audiences sighing
Tomorrow England and Holland
Euro 2024 semi final
Phones poised for
Immortal images
Flash lights flickering
Unbearable tapping of fingers
On tables and chairs of
Agonised anticipation
We’ve rehearsed these moments
A thousand times
Training ground rigmaroles
Millions of shots
Fired at the onion bag
Nets billowing and blustering
The target has to be hit
Goals are the essential currency
England, the only ones
That count, it has to be
Now, tomorrow or it’s
Back at Heathrow
On Thursday morning
A shuddering blow
There is geography and history
Between the flying Dutch
And the educated feet of the English
Remember Euro 96,
The old Wembley
Oh how we adored those
FA Cup Final sepia tinted
Images, but then
Gazza lovable, always
One of our own
A player par excellence
Teddy Sheringham, steady
As they come
On that night he got
It absolutely right
Jamie Redknapp, Harry’s boy
Suave and sophisticated
Passes completed with
The smoothness of carpet slippers
Shearer just doing what
Seemed to come naturally
Recalling the Wor Jackie heritage
Among the Geordie pride
Newcastle to his fingertips
So England be ready
For Rembrandt’s modern day
Heroes and icons
Ronald Koeman, now sitting
From the sidelines
Privately glowing with
The knowledge that his
Free kick blew England out
Of the 1994 World Cup
Out of the water
So park your orange bikes
Next to those placid canals
Gareth Southgate
Take a deep breath
Behind the scenes
Frantic last minute
Lines memorised
The roar of the grease paint
In the wings
You can hear
And feel the apprehension
Nerve shredding,
Unbearable theatricality
Sweet wrappers rustling,
Low whispers of constant
Questions, questions
We can barely look
Up until now
Disgracefully forgettable
Hardly worthy of mention
Glasses of lager trembling
With yet more unspoken fears
St George and Union Jack flags
Petrified with portents of failure
Dutch revenge in the air
Burgers will be bristling with
Beefy bliss if England can
Do it again
Pubs erupting with profuse
Breweries of pleasure
Plastic cups spraying
Fountains of booze
Into street carnivals
Of joy,
High summertime
For England it has to
Be coming home
We must hope

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