NOVEMBER PITCH
...for my players

The whistle, shrill and chilling,
Calls an end to the powerful quads
Dashing the field and
Stills the goal-ward snap-headers.
The ‘keepers, scraped and bruised,
Sit back on their heels as the
White chalk settles from the final corner kick.
The orange flags give a weak
Wave, then die unnoticed while the
Nets, touched but once, sag.
A light cloud of dust scuffed up
By molded soles whisks into the
Dead grass near the woods.
With blazing forwards and
A blinding low sun
Victory graced the home team; while
The pitch, cold with November, knowing
Nothing of nothing to celebrate,
Waits to be put away.

rk