Men on the terraces

We vermoeden dat velen van jullie niet veel op hebben met gedichten en poëzie en dat soort. Dan moet je nu ff een uitzondering maken en je vooroordelen over moeilijke dichters overboord gooien. Shit is mooi, hartstikke mooi. Over waarom we maar altijd blijven komen. Terwijl er zoveel meer in de wereld is. Lezen nu!

Men on the terraces

G. Jeffrey

Rain fell sadly throughout the match;

Two goals were shared, but nobody cared,

Or seemed to care, about the match.

Why did we stay on the terraces,

Watching a game, not worth the name?

Surely there are better places?

More admirable ways of using

Saturday afternoon, than choosing

To watch men playing a game they're paid for?

(Isn't that what Englishmen were made for?)

But sometimes during the dullest play

Something comes back from an earlier day.

A fleeting moment, a hint of grace,

Brings back a feeling, a time, a place...

We are more than what we seem -

Men on the terraces soaking wet.

We have glimpsed part of our golden dream,

Our April glory, Together, yet

Private, as though recall

The hopes and dreams of what we were,

Or wanted to be, in the far-off days.

A forward slips on the rain-soaked ground,

The goalkeeper safely gathers the ball...

Slowly the thoughts of yesteryear

Flicker and fade in the smoke and haze

Lowering over the football ground.

(dank aan inzender Frank!)