The Whistle Never Blew

The whistle never blew; only the wind
Lifting leaves in its lee, from carcass-trees bent
And stooped over the pitch, grandstands
Burnt to a cinder at each end.

The whistle never blew. We commenced
With studs clacking on cement, retired when tired;
Mud golems traipsing trails of earth, last-gasp
Lumps carved from chances thick in the mire.

The whistle never blew, through all our shrieks;
Shirts and shorts sodden, sodding everything in sight:
"Sodding keeper!"; "Sodding striker!"; "Sodding rain!"
With headlights for floodlights, blanketing the night.

The whistle never blew, the pitch was never marked
But for the dogshit and bricks trimming the turf.
An eleven of elevens with the bus parked in front
Of the goalmouth of their own fragile worth.

Consolation goals with no consoles
And with no controllers, cocooned in all we knew;
Heroes from hometime to teatime.
The whistle never blew.


(Today's blip inspired by Roy Stuart Clarke's Homes of Football collection; press the play button above the images and enjoy the built-in soundtrack that enhances the stunning exhibition).