Everything Else
Golden Fields
The Decade
A decade of youthful decadence, warm protected years
Inside a layered coat of sugared white
The Weetabix way out of sight
And the bread, and the hot milk.
The snow fell late and covered deep
Which may explain my sweet dreams sleep and my rotten teeth.
Bydown, his perfect therapist
His best school friend
Where he ran and ran for ever in a day that never ends
Ten deliriously happy summers
Put to bed
On the golden fields inside his head
The Day Breaks (at sun-up)
In the early morning light, On the last frontiers of a long drawn out Suburban garden houseWhere the lone ranging, ragtime cowboy Would “pick em off”, one by one With the sharp taste of raspberries As he transformed berry canes into repeating rifles And crawled “shootin and scootin” Through an undulating secret warren Of scrubgrass dunes and anthills, Taking the odd stinging nettle bullet or anthill hit along the way, An Arizona trail wet with tough tears And a chin that glistened, trembling in the hot sun –Talk about a Cowboy!
The Day Breaks (at sun up)
In the early morning light
On the last frontiers of a long drawn out
Suburban garden house
Where the lone ranging, ragtime cowboy
Would “pick em off”, one by one
With the sharp taste of raspberries
As he transformed berry canes into repeating rifles
And crawled “shootin and scootin”
Through an undulating secret warren
Of scrubgrass dunes and anthills
Taking the odd stinging nettle bullet or an thill hit
Along the way. An Arizona trail wet with tough tears
And a chin that glistened, trembling in the hot sun –
Talk about a Cowboy!
Lunchtime (at high noon)
And on to a mid day kick off
On the hallowed turf of Wembley or Old Trafford
Where Charlton, the only GOD he ever knew
Lorded it over lesser mortals.
Stag leaps over endless flowerbed tackles
The famed red or white strip a whizzing blurr
And all the while a running commentary
Boiling up to a back of the throat kettle whistle scream of exultation
G–O–A–L!!!!
Neighbouring terraces erupted on the Northdowns Way
As the bombshells, in either foot,
Found a bulging net and a keeper stooped
Leaving a dysfunctional hedge full of sock balls,
Tennis balls, tins, mugs, missed chances –
Even the occasional football.
Deflated, dead, resurrected.
And Mum in her kitchen dugout was never best pleased either.
Teatime
And after extra time, beans on toast.
A gulp of air then a short walk.
There stands Wimbledon!
Long shadowed, high walled evenings on the garage centre forecourt
Where, before a full house, the Gladiators fought
John Newcombe reigned and served supreme,
Ken Rosewall’s backhand winners (later Illie Nastase’s)
Came off scuffed and worn-out shoes
Caked in the hot red clay of Rolland Garros,
Though some might say was only
The cold grey gravel stony
Of Surrey’s finest driveway
And then those “coup de grâce” rushes to a beaten garage door
To take the net and risk it all,
Low backhand crosscourt volleys
Always seemed to end the rally.
Night-time
And finally those,
"It’s way past your bedtime” Tony Tannoys
And Nightgames
Games that never stopped,
In an attic bedroom fit to drop
And bursting at the seams – with all those trophies
All those dreams
Deception
Did anyone ever work it out? Head down, overcast,
Late for work. I walked the busy London streets
Just like everyone else.
Only I wasn’t. I was different, special, famous.
The 1500 metres Olympic Final, I picked my rivals carefully
Dawdling lovers, shoppers, talkers - generous, risky
Staggered starts. Office workers fast or slow -
Handicapped, tracked then hunted down
The starters gun at bus stops, street signs or pavement curb
I could only ever be Steve Ovett lagging behind.
Waiting to pounce, playing the field,
In the rush hour a very big field
Where to finish? Maybe that lamppost or the entrance there?
Finishing straight to first the tape, a tape that moved to keep the streak alive,
Unbeaten to the very end. Sebastian Coe was rarely seen
Sheffield steel was not for me, but when he arrived,
Battle commence. Barely a metre could I yield,
He felt my shadow on his shoulder
If the field got heavy with stragglers lapped;
Then a world record time was on the cards
20k hip sway walkers gait,
The card that trumped and took me home
Pinstriped Coe, I reeled him in,
Gold piled high through all those years.
Winding up not down
(Not a very charitable, charity football match!)
Long after I’m gone, if I’m lucky,
People, possibly the Coroner,
Will wonder at the collared truth of broken bones at 60 years.
There will be two versions:
Winding up not down
They’ll sense his iron will and courage raw
The rushing, blooded, reckless mind.
The trophies won with sinews strong, all synchronized in perfect time.
Perhaps old men should never say never, never know better?
Winding down not up
They’ll shake sad heads and just assume he had another fall.
Getting up and down the stairs, his mind went walkies
Dreaming of past glories, then stumbling to a broken death.
Perhaps old men should always say never, always know better?
In dreams I’m always Gale Force 10
Yet in real life I wonder when,
I’ll storm past 7.
They Brought Him If
Sun and Moon share dusk at night
One eye fired, set in red
The other cold, fading white
Your black-bagged waves hot stars reflect
Ideas so bright they flood our dreams
They brought him If
And now at dusk, it’s up to us.