POETRY: OCTOBER 25

Walking Football

The old men on the indoor pitch surge forward

tortoise-like, pass, dribble, feint, attempt a header

now and then. Sometimes the ball rolls to a stop.

There’s no-one on the touchline singing or cheering 

and the ref’s a PE teacher from the Tech.

The score hardly matters: we’re talking fitness,

getting out, improving everybody’s self-esteem.

It’s a bit like Saturday morning aqua class, but this

is for the seniors, and no-one has to get undressed. 

A sudden burst of movement on the wing

takes everybody by surprise. The outside left

is almost running, stumbling really, but his way is clear.

He shoots, the ball spins sideways off the pitch, 

the goalie straightens up. But no-one groans:

they’ve almost reached full time and everybody’s won.

Afterwards, they stand around the vending machine

and sip their decaffs, tell a joke or two and reminisce.

There’s talk about an entry for the Walking Football Cup;

it doesn’t come to much. They say goodbye with promises

they’ll be along next week: what had gone missing,

sparse fleeting moments, coming into view again

as they walk together through the busy streets,

their shadows scoring hat-tricks in the sun.

Nick Boreham

The Doll in the Museum

(Moorland Cottage, Castle Museum, York)

A little girl, on tiptoe at the barrier,

points at the makeshift wooden doll  

propped on a child’s rocking chair.

Everything happened in this one room:

bedroom, nursery, kitchen, parlour.

Above the sink a witch ball hangs,

on the rag rug a stuffed sheepdog,

glass eyes glinting by the light of the fire.

Once, a shepherd whittled a branch

to make a dolly for his daughter,

carved the eyes, the lopsided smile,

just body and head, no legs, no hair,

no clothes, rope for arms. Doll! Doll!

the little girl tugs her mother’s sleeve…

and a long-ago child comes back to life,

toddles in through that open door

lifts her wooden doll from the chair,

swings her round by frayed rope hands,

clogs ringing on the stone flags.

Lavenders blue, dilly dilly, lavenders green

When I am King, dilly dilly, you shall be Queen.

Carole Bromley 

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