Stopping By The Bridge On A Snowy Evening
¶ 1
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whose ground this is we surely know
yet so unrecognizable in snow
and I my glee can barely hide
to find these gates so open wide –
¶ 2
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my little dog must think it strange
to stop with neither sound nor game
he gives his furry head a shake
as if to say “for heaven’s sake”
¶ 3
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as icicles upon the stand
hang pointing like some outstretched hand
more purer than the blankest page
this dazzling winter football stage
¶ 4
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more magic now than euro ties
or times when we the giants surprise –
or days when sun beat down on grass
as golden as some Zola pass
¶ 5
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and where so many sit and yell
there’s only me to feel and tell
save for a flag with pigeons on
who with a flurried flake are gone
¶ 6
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no markings here to see at all
no ground-staff player coach or ball
but I’m enraptured by the sight
of snow-bound terraces of white –
¶ 7
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while all around in empty streets
brave motorists will make retreats
and slide through London’s transformed land
like skaters in some wonderland..
¶ 8
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how to a standstill weather brings
a stop to more important things
and where there should be Wolves at home
I stand here silent and alone –
¶ 9
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and think on all who ever stood
or sat through seasons bad and good
a hundred years upon this bridge
more cold and bleak than any fridge..
¶ 10
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from Bovril to rosettes and tea
from hooligans to luxury
from Lawton’s hair to Dynamos
Roy Bentley to John Sillett’s nose
¶ 11
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from our old Shed to private suites
to walking home through crowded streets
Paul Cannoville and Nevin’s style
I ponder on it all a while
¶ 12
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but I have miles of motorway
twixt home and all that I survey
and soon so soon I must return
to where my cottage fire will burn –
¶ 13
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but still i stand like referees
upon awarding penalties
to share in wonder as I go
the beauty of a ground in snow
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