PayByPhone put me in the West Stand
I spied my PE teacher in town
Chris Kinnear and Dover would
Leave Brisbane Road with a frown
A blitz sends The Whites home empty
McAnuff put the O’s clear
The skipper has now scored
In a row for the eighteenth year
Koroma and Harrold make it three
Rampant Charlie Lee conjures a blur
No mercy for Chris of The Crabble
Sorry Mr Kinnear sir!
© emdad rahman
The Wolves emerged from the undergrowth
And stood on the lush green field.
The pack was so focussed on what lay ahead,
In their minds it was done, signed and sealed.
Further down through the woodlands, the counties and cities,
In an area right by the big river,
The pack from the old Craven Cottage
Was preparing to also deliver.
Two clubs in my life have stepped up together,
Back into the Premier League,
The season has started for Fulham and Wolves
And I’m hoping to see them succeed.
I’ll watch all their games from a distance,
Whether they’re at home or playing away
And at the end of this season in the Premier League
I want to think they will be here to stay.
Ianthe Exall 25th August 2018
the barber says
”I’ll do what I can”
of thin grey hair
a Ralph Coates
everything I ever did
couldn’t keep emotions hid
back when I was just a kid
ev’ry time we’d play
captured by a moving ball
from the time when I was small
have I really changed at all ?
waiting for the day
even now the merest sound
turns my head and heart around
as I start to near the ground
do you feel the same?
in your blood and in your bones
hard at work or in your home
with your friends or on your own
waiting for the game
in the morning when you wake
feel the longing feel that ache
always seems so much at stake
as the time draws near
no-one realy understands
how devotion rules our plans
what it is that makes us fans
still it pulls us here
you can try but can’t explain
moments filled with joy and pain
still we come back once again
in the same old way
this is how it’s always been
following your local team
ev’ry time the same old dream
waiting for the day
an august goal
in the eponymous month
monkey off Kane’s back
before the match
we drop in The Gate
to find its now Legends
cheap beer loud music
and a room full of geezers
I have blood that boils
with every contentious decision
I have blood that freezes
when I need net-busting precision
I have blood that curdles
with every demeaning debacle
I have blood that spills
with many a decisive tackle
so see this blood of mine?
it runs royal-blue through my veins
and aye, ‘twas ever thus
since the onset of my mother’s labour pains!
Of aerial combat
His tireless lion heart
Pursued lost causes
With the passion of St. Jude
And gave them all a home.
Bakayoko sent to Coventry!
Oh yes, my dream has come true
For I hate to see any waster
Turning out in my beloved Royal Blue
Alas and alack
It turns out to be Walsall’s Amadou
And not our Tiemou slacker
As part of this deadline day ballyhoo
Though he may yet depart
For we hear he could be Milan bound
Leaving on a jet plane
If the money for a loan can be found
Good riddance say I
And welcome to Kepa the Keeper
I know nothing about him, but at £71m
He’d better be a leaper!
Another worrisome thought:
Kovacic is our second incoming defensive mid
It’s bothering me that
Kante could be gone if PSG bid!
And oh! If only someone would take Morata
For him I’d easily accept a penny
Yet even at that price, would there be any takers?
I’ll confidently bet you – not many!
Let the living answer the roll call of the dead:
Walter Tull of Spurs and Northampton Town KIA 1918;
And now the names from Forest Green:
Harry Watts was born in 1891 in Avening.
Harry joined the 6th Signal Corps of the Royal Engineers
prior to outbreak of war and became a Corporal.
He received the Military Medal in 1915.
Ernest Beale was born in 1897.
He worked as a brass worker before joining up.
He died in 1916 at Exeter Hospital of meningitis.
Names from another century come back to haunt us:
Walter, and Ernest, and Harry,
Names once shouted over a football pitch,
‘Give it to Walter’,
‘Over here, Harry,
The imperatives of a football team
Replaced by new orders in khaki, with
Night patrols, barbed wire and machine guns;
Muddied football boots forgotten
In the trench foot fields of Flanders;
The clamour from the ground and stands
No match for whizz bangs, mortars and howitzers;
The fogs of a November match,
Innocent memories in a gas attack:
‘Over the top tomorrow, Harry’,
‘Keep your head down, Ernie’,
‘Stay quiet. Don’t shoot, Ernie’,
‘Don’t worry, Harry. We’ll get you to hospital’,
You may have known each other,
Played with or against each other,
Boarded ships and trains together,
Relieved each other in the trenches,
And who knows?
Some of the Nailsworth, Shortwood and Forest Green players
Who survived the war,
May have searched for your body, Walter,
Before and after your last breath and memories,
Memories of Spurs and Northampton,
And a grandmother who had been a slave,
And you, an officer now,
Revered and loved by his men,
Searching for you out there in no man’s land,
As you breathe your last breath,
In whatever corner of a foreign field,
Which will always be an England,
Where the wind rushes.
And, who knows?
They may have talked of you,
That fine footballer, officer and gentleman,
When gathering in the Jovial Forester,
Toasting you with Stroud Brewery beer,
But then forgetting you as times grew hard,
As the wind rushes by.
As the Wind Rushes by.