April is here, and you’re in England, home.
Warm air breathes hope into your stroll
through Longmead’s leafy car park.
Beer-deepened voices amplify the hope,
inject a note of cocky confidence,
rise together to drown the worm of doubt.
You stand as one, fill your lungs
with the reward for nine months’ sweat,
your ears with off-key chants.
Floodlights dissolve dusk into dark,
pick out the protagonists, burn the scene
into your distant future memory.
Hearts fall and rise in unison,
tension dissipates and coagulates again,
your veins throb to a whistle’s shriek.
Shuffle in silence from ball park through car park:
your chilled blood cools the night air.
Polish this broken dream for your trophy case.