What if we forgot to start pre-season,
found a training camp for enjoying time
above the crickets and distant fireflies?
What if we only started the season
to fulfil a contract? Where is the passion
which made us run through the tail end of June
on stony wasteland between the chines
when no-one was watching or measuring
shots and misses or all the ground covered
as the sun hung on to its residence?
What if we forgot to start the season?
Where would agents find their sad colliery
of which money is the sole corollary?
What if we forgot to start pre-season
so ‘The league table never lies’
means nothing but everyone is equal
as light floods the piers and beaches of Boscombe
and Bournemouth, Old Harry and his Wife
constant in the season’s incoming tide.