The Pilgrims are on the Radio

Growls and crackles on a rotational dial is rare;

Thank the Lord for DAB.

Absolutely huge, this game, for me, them, us.

Mates relay the action

Down an eager, wobbly transmission line,

Blaring updates with urgency;

Colours fizz two sides into view.

The grass turns to sand as feet entrench,

Curdling to a viscous, taffy, smush. Nil-nil,

Insomnical sleep, defined.

No tenored squeals until the very end,

Please. Not until after extra time.

A long ball slap, a hearty touchline scrap,

The destiny of the spot-kicks decides who goes up.

To search for a Nightingale

A springtime walk: just the two of us; two by two,

Alone on the scoured Wick. Wind

Buffets, ripening trees.

The birds draping through jet streams;

Updrafts. Bullets grazing through sheets of glass.

Indecipherable call of the nightingale;

Inviting, unique, non-sequential.

A flash of lemon yellow,

Blackened steel, an archer’s target for a face –

Rich cherry blush. No shame here,

Except for us. Foolish amateurs –

We’ve never seen the Goldfinch before.

Mirrors how we found each other, 

Christ. Drawn to the mad chitterings

Of boring birds; all mouth no trousers.

Strafing the tangled bush for the source of these sounds,

As beams of colour ping across the sky,

Turning ‘round, we embraced each other, finally.

The Whisper

I don’t want to become a whisper.

I don’t wish to be the fallen breath.

I don’t take comfort from the vista.

I don’t know the reality of death.

I don’t like that their photographs yellow

But we speak as if they’ve never left.

I don’t understand how we don’t bellow

when their names our grace conversation,

asking for a time-splintered, final hello.

Let emotion beat your trepidation;

Remember him and miss her

with the passion of joyous exultation.

Their memories should rub like a blister;

I don’t want to become a whisper.

Sutton Hoo

Buzzard’s soaring like twinkling stars,

The blue sky shimmers around them.

As they drive above the passing cars,

Focused eyes scan the field’s hem;

They arch for a better view of the mounds,

Ascending the land’s cosmic stem;

Climbing high to escape the sounds,

To sing their own mewing bars.

Great Tit’s bound above us,

Volleying into a naked hedgerow.

They settle and watch what the human does,

As the wind buffets their perch to and fro.

They pay no mind to history,

They’re content to hover low.

Anglo-Saxon tales of glory,

Buried treasures and lost, scattered loves.

Melton and Woodbridge want feeding,

Two towns drinking deep from the Debden.

Spectators of an epoch which is now bleeding,

Frothing and bubbling to the surface again.

Two tourists, like us, looking for a place to park,

This ancient space now replenished with men.

The National Trust, Noah’s modern Ark,

Has branchless doves presenting tickets for redeeming.

The Lady’s house, white and emergent,

Peaks above the valley, like whale ribs.

Farmland, flora, fauna, and man, show resplendent

To the old, closer to the casket, and the young, to their cribs.

Clattering canes and sploshing hiking boots

Wear down the remains of enameled nibs.

Inside, feast upon the famished fruits

Of heritage funding well-spent.

A new viewing platform scaffolds the sky,

But firemen weren’t in mind for this drill tower,

Where death lies below and humanity must fly.

True history must seek shelter and cower,

In reflection of this century’s arrogance.

Just as a delicate butterfly can’t beat the shower,

Neither can time beat its own expanse.

In the river trough, the moorhens and coots continue to cry.

Surround Sound Clown

Need to find tickets to a gig,

Get that feeling back in my legs,

Twitch.

Drink a stale pint down to the dregs,

Over a year since that last cig.

Working from home, scouring listings,

For bands I’d heard of (none at all),

Sitch.

Click quick, click swift: venue is small,

Mind wanders out of their Zoom meetings.

Birthday week is coming up fast,

Girlfriend is desperate to treat me,

Bitch.

I’m researching our revelry,

Night of fun, as if it’s our last.

Music scene here died with Britpop;

Might have to go see comedy,

Hitch.

Humor thrives in tragedy,

We’ll feast on the communal slop.

We’re off work now for the weekend,

Heading out for a pre-meal show,

Kitsch.

Glad it’s not me behind the wheel,

With that gawping crowd to contend.

Stumblin’ home and chokin’ down laughs,

Carriages spew out at midnight,

Ditch.

Squaddies squaring up for a fight,

Blood-splatter, beer-soaked winter scarves.

So come on you bastards, let’s go!

I’ve had a blast, riding on fumes,

Pitch.

The backstreets where the danger looms,

And punters face a second show.

Match of the Day 2 (Liverpool vs Fulham)

Lush green grass sways with

the breathless brushing of boots;

chasing down the ball.

Vinyl on the Weekend

Johnny Cash singing

from an old vinyl record,

Scratching past midnight.

Giving money to the Global South

Give, give, give.

White peaks, powdered-sugar delicacies;

Glide off crusted piste on skis or snowboard.

Give, give, give.

Used hygiene products slew into malty

seas. Bobbing along, crude cereal bowl.

Give, give, give.

Hessian cushions, rich texture of rose

red and sumptuous gold. Lay one’s head gently.

Give, give, give.

Wiggly toes in holes of oft-gifted socks,

Gloves lost in the scene of a rush hour crush.

Give, give, give.

Discus of thicket cloth crooked atop of 

worthy crown; breezes fail to penetrate.

Give, give, give.

Farrow & Ball not enough to hold the 

warmth; oil heaters, value for money.

Give, give, give.

Dried mud, dust, sifting under nail beds;

Pistachio trees twirl under nurt’ring.

Give, give, give.

Scrambling walls of debted wells, payday looms.

Flat track, walking to work; been cut no slack.

Give, give, give.

Forty million striving, hardened people,

They’ve braved all of this many times over.

Give, give, give.

It’s only through giving that you then know 

how much deeper you can afford to go.

Bottomless!

Juventus vs Inter Milan (Derby d’Italia)

A twenty-three-year-old youngster, the talk of the town.

Nicolussi Caviglia coming back before he’d even started.

Entrusted with the central role,

In the biggest game of the season so far.

A fulcrum, 

Youth as the the edge and dictator of the frontier,

Between attack and defence:

Kids to determine how we’ll play.

Protests against femicide ahead of kick-off,

A solitary red flick of paint on everyone’s cheek,

Genetic disposition not isolated to Northern Italy.

Speeches met with consistent, determined applause.

Footballers as spokesmen –

Please follow the way,

What they say.

Chiesa, well-groomed and up for a scuffle tonight,

Driving, pulling and darting.

Cross pulled-back,

Shot lifts up,

And up,

And up.

Not to deter him, 

Just warming up.

We’ll see him swish and sway from the left to the centre;

Like a washing line laden with wet clothes,

Whipping around with brutal efficiency.

Inter are calm and soft going forward.

They gently edge at their opponents:

Neat little attacks and a clean header from Martinez,

Easily held.

They are here and here to play.

Tidy and crisp in their movement and their passing:

Blue and black baubles rearranging themselves on the branches 

of a transitioning Christmas tree.

Criss-crossed light’s burning thick and crushing the unseen ahead,

Angles and tinsel almost heaving and constricting;

They’ve brought their own excitement.

Inter’s press, oh no, they’ve pressed.

All the usual talk of a gegen-press that was popular

Nearly ten years ago.

Proven up, embarrassed, made to look juvenile.

It’s undone and Chiesa launches down the left,

It’s his space to plough through and it’s bare.

Vlahovic found in the middle,

Daggers the ball in the bottom corner.

It bounds and nestles low,

Like a hare escaping the clutches of a fox,

It hugs the back wall of its burrow when home,

Nothing will follow that.

Channel carved and furrowed,

From wide on the left, 

To the bottom right of the goal.

1-0.

Near-symmetry just moments later:

Juventus overcommit,

Caused by their rapturous glee.

A high-defensive overload scythed and Thuram,

Clean through on the right,

Thundering forwards and finds Martinez.

Slotted perfectly into the lower-left;

A gambler casually pushing his chips into the middle of the table.

So easy, so clean and swift.

This game feels destined to be equal,

A sign of two excellent teams.

Goals from either side would destroy the perfect balance,

Holding the Universe in its flexible grasp.

Neither side letting up,

They continue to push with maniacal courage.

Half-time beckons and both sides let the slashing wind

Of the Ligurian Sea slap and sober them.

Half-press? Yes, half-press, only, lads.

Let’s go in equal and start again.

It could explode in the second half.

Something is building.

A fight, a four-four finish, a contentious call from the referee?

Ferocity remains but the aggression has been tampered.

Horses won’t bolt when they’ve been hobbled.

An Inter attack feels half-hearted, destined for nowhere.

Niggly fouls, lacklustre piledrivers.

Back down the tunnel, dew flicking off squeaking boots,

Covering up evidence of the early excitement.

Good to see Inter have learned a lesson.

A wild, stretching, fluid formation,

Has made way for a 4-3-3 which balances both defence and attack.

Often, they even attack in defence.

The push and the press is not petulant and performative,

They’re showing discipline and restraint.

Juventus not to be outdone, however,

Inspired when they defend:

A fizzing, fuzzing amoeba.

They shift their shape,

A grouping of black-and-white lymphocytes,

Break off from the body and destroy stray Inter bursts,

At the point of infection.

Their shirts, an erratic striping with a yellow fork line,

frosted fringes of mustard over their magpie stripes.

Do not adjust your television set:

The transmission is perfectly clear.

Less keen to attack than before half-time,

Although their resilience will embolden them on the front foot.

Glum faces, ashen and grey, watch on.

The assumption is that they are here for the home team.

Suited up, eyes rolling around at anything that may interest them.

Are they not watching? It’s not been too bad.

No smiles at all.

Normal fans or are their dad’s and uncle’s directors?

Perhaps they know something that we don’t.

The youngster makes way with thirty minutes to go.

Didn’t show himself up but perhaps he’s shown how green he is.

Some oomph and energy needed to fission in the middle of the pitch.

Juventus hoping to transplant a soul into the dying man,

Let’s see how successful this biological alchemy can be.

Maybe a slight change, positively;

Juve’s obstinance deepens.

Spiked in the middle of the pitch, 

They funnel Inter down their own throats,

And then sick them up before they can cause any damage.

Keeping it away from danger,

Better out than in.

Cuadrado makes a return,

Hazed by the crowd.

Baying for him to be upturned in a fifty-fifty joust.

Welcome back, piacere.

He matches it,

Sending Kostic flying.

A yellow card fluttered his way by the referee.

Unfair.

The authorities sensing the souring atmosphere,

Bringing everyone to heel.

Justice is a concept the crowd cannot care for.

Kostic retaliates with cynicism.

A kick to the ankle when Cuadrado is in full flow,

Inter’s rebounding attack curtailed.

The Colombian winces,

Howling from the vindictive terraces.

Pallid faces,

Joyful revenge.

Attracting such strong emotions and physicality,

Cuadrado’s spindly frame,

Pivoting on the balls of his left foot,

Like a sublime ballerina in a jewellery box,

Launching the ball into both forward corners of the pitch;

Inter’s main threat,

Juventus acutely aware of his prowess.

Not much made in this second half, still.

A throw from the former-Juve darling,

Flicked on and collected by his ex-teammate.

Two animated managers,

Beautifully cut Italian suits,

Sown ready-to-wear,

Onto their gesticulating bodies.

A wooden-paneled, mirror-drenched crystalised cave of a

Tailor’s shop had them buttressed,

For the rigours of the Derby d’Italia.

Hopping like mad on the touchline.

What can one achieve?

Channeling Satan himself to the field.

Before the fires of hell can open up, though,

It’s over.

Stale, 1-1.

FC Koln vs Bayern Munich

Didn’t the rain hammer down?

Drowning out the raucous fans.

Not that that was the only thing,

To put them in their place.

A dominant performance from Bayern.

Steffen Baumgart’s flat cap flooded,

Still can’t keep his cool.

Not pretty, not cute, not always fun to watch;

A win’s a win, and this was easy.

A simple finish from a well-worked move,

Koln will keep kicking themselves for it.

A pass easily cut out with a firm foot,

Play transported with speed unknown

Up to Kane, fresh from his international break.

No chance that North Macedonia would have attacked like that,

And found themselves so exposed.

The Maltese were quicker out of the trap,

But escaped the English overload.

A Bayern goal, not Spurs nor country.

Totally different game, the lad has adapted well.

Nope, it was club football on the menu again.

Kane opened up space, a delicious, licorice whip out to the right.

Choupo-Moting’s shot blocked off the line,

Kane completes the zig-zagging movement of the ball

And eases it into the net.

Calm, casual celebration. He does this all the time.

The most goals by an Englishman,

In one Bundesliga season; fine,

Fine, form.

Sane was finding remarkable space on the left,

But Thielmann and Schwabe have been equal to it.

Driving at their outside shoulder with fury,

The polar opposite to ol’ Kingsley Colman facing them up,

Looking to get the central players into the action,

Early in the second half.

Koln, desperate to use their right-hand side,

Needing to undercut a tough defensive overload.

They traced a blunted hammer:

Head flat and blocked as it meets a stern Bayern defense.

Knocking it back down the shaft, 

To the sanctuary of their goal, Koln find space;

Inevitably turned over when the ball hits the center.

Lack of invention, a class apart.

If there is one thing that has never been learned, though,

By big-horned, Billy Goats,

Is not to change when faced with adversity.

Keep butting at your tormenter,

See what comes out of it,

You could surprise yourselves.

Hennes looked on, not allowed to eat his own ground’s grass.

Koln continued to work on the right.

This stunted channel, their best bet.

As time moved on, Bayern broke out of their boredom,

Sane and Coman seem to move in.

They’re leaving spaces on their comfortable,

Well-defended wings.

The full-backs are pushing on,

The midfielders are pulling out.

Kane is withdrawing deeper.

The home fans are starting to doubt.

The rapid, intrepid wingers now switching,

To really pull Koln around.

Just the act of movement draws the defenders to the middle,

Where the grass turns to pure mud,

And the ball becomes impossible to possess.

Bayern can’t help but keep it amongst themselves.

The home team scuffle and shake to win the ball,

Nothing going.

Bayern have won the midfield.

Koln keep their shape in defense,

Despite the incremental rejigging

Of Bayern’s shifting shape.

Kane is a constant spectre:

Here and then not,

Then here again, out from underneath the black swirling curtain folds.

Each of Bayern’s attackers’s kits ruffle and glow darkly

As they transition across the pitch.

They follow the hoary shape of the wind.

Kane’s header wins a corner.

It goes nowhere.

Coman and Sane finally combine:

Coman, moved from right to left,

From the left,

Finds Sane,

Moved from the left to the right,

On the right.

Meeting it late,

The ball splashed away and behind by Schwabe.

Corners are adding up,

Not quite all square.

Bayern looking to extend their lead.

Two headers at that same, very corner.

Flicked on from the near post,

Coman’s terminal header,

Flashes up off the bar.

No subs made by Bayern.

English commentary psychoanalysing Tuchel.

Is there any point?

He sits, shaking his head.

Disgusted by what he’s seeing.

Driving his own stubbornness.

A strange performance to witness.

All Bayern, really.

Even Bayern in attack.

Yet, how many shots?

How dangerous have they looked?

Koln keep pushing to the end.

Not a bad display, although never really going anywhere.

Kim and Neuer can look a little jittery.

Although they keep their cool to keep it out, again.

Inviting trouble, some may say.

Bailing themselves out after baiting dangerous pressure in.

Anything to keep the game interesting,

For those on the pitch.

Koln win the ball in their own half,

A poor pass from Sane.

But Bayern regroup and swarm like killer bees

Or frenzied bluebottles.

Dark shirts engulf the white-stripped Koln.

Made it look easy.

Total control.

A final Koln corner swept away.

Not quite comfortably,

But do we really know at this point?

Willingly self-destructive;

Inviting Koln to see the big red button,

Shoo’ing them away when they reach out to press it.

Let them have it, let them have it.

Result never seemed in doubt.

Why use your subs?

If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.