Sporting retro poetry

Sporting retro poetry.

To quote an old TV programme. Now for something entirely different.

Here are the lyrical musings of a poet who didn't quite know it. You could call it sporting poetry but none rhyme as such but do occasionally. Still, while most of the world is agonising and worrying about coronavirus here are several pieces of my very descriptive prose written many years ago. So here we go everybody.

Cricket - what a game!

A gentle prod to square leg
Over church bells and village tent
A glass of wine perhaps for a while
Cricket's dulcet melody

A lofted six over hedge and yew
Umpire gives a knowing sigh
Batsmen rest on this
One and only
Begonia scented day

Third man glances wistfully
Over steeple and hill
We cheered the four
Where jackdaws soar
And lunched till stately tea

The hook over long on
This rural English scene
Of gallant deeds and upstanding folk
As rain stopped play on that morose pavilion
Amid lasting centuries
Through all the days


Football - Dreams from another age

You remember the days of
Baggy shorts that flapped in the wind
Cigarette card heroes
With boots of iron

Brylcreemed hair so soft and silky
Stood to attention as Matthews scored
We surged and swayed in mighty crowds
When Bovril and manners were half a crown

Thunderous roar, we cheered our goal
Lofthouse and Finney in their royal cloak
From joyous streets and smoky pubs
We lit our Woodbines and shuffled home.

This was the game that stole our hearts
When dreams and fantasies held the FA Cup
We rattled from terraces from way up high
And squeezed our scarves with a rapturous hug

I saw Best in his pomp, when London swung
Dancing to a tune
A heavenly pirouette
I wiped a tear when Bobby Moore died
The masterful maestro who always smiled

I'll never forget those Saturdays of yesteryear
When grand-dad and I,
Waved a rosette and heaved a sigh
Moist eyed but happy
We raised a glass to family and friends
To flying wingers, peas and pie


I saw footballing perfection last night.

Did you see Real last night?
Like a landscape in June
That flowered on the hill
When the river flowed and the angels played their harps
Sun set kissed the perfect Bernabeu

They glided and waltzed over
This handsome turf
With the air of a rumba
Their arrogance called

The peerless Zidane with the brush of a Cezanne,
Sprayed with garish colours over United's wall
When Figo bent the ball over Barthez's head
Sculptors as one, gasped with delight

But this was the night when Madrid came alive
When Raul found his kingdom
And Ronaldo thrived
Poets and novelists may squabble and debate
I saw Real consummate

If this was the portrait of all that was great
Then Carlos sat with noble intent,
Real will win the European Cup,
Like the matadors of old,
Taking their bow with timeless grace
And the disdainful nonchalance of those who always knew.

Stay safe and keep well everybody.