Football Poets

West Ham in Europe

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 Yet more European assignments
For the men in claret and blue
This time in the middle of orange
Groves in succulent sweet
Seville or Sevilla
The juiciest of ties
With little in the way
Of pips but the narrowest
Defeat, where a one goal
Deficit can be redeemed
And the London Stadium
Could be at its most
Melodious, blowing bubbles
In C Major or operatic
Arias, floating freely
From Westfield shopping
Centres, perhaps the Barber
Of Seville, cutting runs
From Bowen, not on duty
Last night injured
But still capable of weaving
Webs, the tie is evenly poised
For West Ham though
The garden is still green
If goals can be found in East
End shrubberies and claret
And blue bushes
West Ham, still emotionally involved
In Europa League conferences
Negotiating Spanish orchards
Of oranges, nectarines and tangerines
But Sevilla
Finely ripened last night
A goal to the good although
Privately dreading
The simmering pressure cooker
At the London Stadium
The Olympic Park
Ready to erupt again
As it once did when
Mo Farrah once kicked
Home for Olympic gold
It could be a rewarding night
For those iron clad Hammers
Indestructible at times
Then leaky and porous as
The kitchen sieve
But now hungry for
More bountiful banquets
Feed Bowen, for Soucek
There can be a Czech mate
If West Ham can pilfer
Crucial pawns, depose
Bishops, remove kings
Vlasic, though, still seems the wrong
Fit, a prickly thorn among
Early spring flowers
A Croatian calamity
In claret and blue
Benrahma’s days in
The East End possibly numbered
Unstoppable at times but not now
Darting and probing here
And there, but uncomfortable,
Ungainly, the exit is that way Said
But Declan was back wearing the
Purple robes, a crowning
Influence, blocking Spanish
Channels of communication
Moving sensually and sinuously
Through the sun flowers of Sevilla
Gliding and sliding with effortless ease
Like the seasoned trouper years
Ahead of his time
Declan Rice this is your stage
West Ham skipper for a while
But summer could bring richer
Pastures at Stamford Bridge, Old
Trafford, even the Etihad
Since multi millions speak the
Most fluent of languages
With full stops and commas
He signs on the dotted line
Of Champions League football
Assuredly
But then there was last night
When Michal Antonio seemed
To have run a thousand marathons
Running for his life
But then finding leggy
Legs, awkwardness at a Spanish
Siesta, Recalcitrant ankles
Pleading for sandy beaches
In the summer rum punch of
Mediterranean warmth
Where buoyant Brits
Land the towels before
The Germans
Claiming proprietorial rights
On those lovingly furnished
Sun beds where sun factor
57, dominates the footballer’s
Mind
West Ham though still in Europe
And ironically Spain where the
Toreador awaits the London
Stadium faithful,
Brandish the cape, ole West Ham
A paella for all we can but hope
They will, a dry red wine
Maybe a chianti to celebrate
Sevilla’s fall, dreamers will
Gather in the Stratford chill
Perhaps spring can yield
A claret and blue summer
To cherish, a trophy to
Call their own, let’s
Wait and see

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