Poet or Player?
Silence lies across the stadium,
all eyes, ears
poised for the swish of air,
the rise and sweep of the ball though space.
All pause for the collective hisses of breath,
and drawn out ooohhhs
as our striker misses his run,
as he catches the sun,
glimpses his creation fleeing amidst eternity.
Anger falls flat upon the pitch.
Arms flap in despair.
Gloves slap against legs.
Slow clap of derision.
Player or Poet? Who can tell the difference, who can reach out with wood, believing it truly not to be tipped with ink? Black, viscous, oozing, drip drip onto worn out, scuffed grass. Echoingly resonant around the hushed stadium, all eyes, all ears poised, eager for the final swish of air and muffled thwack and sweep of leather through space. Pause for the collective intake of breath and drawn out ooh as the striker fails to run, as he catches the sun and glimpses his own creation hurtling towards eternity.
No man can catch this now. The words are out, the ink is scored, scribed into a blue paper sky. Strike on wood, his vision rebounding. Beyond those dreams angry voices rise and fall flat upon the pitch, arms flapped in despair, gloves slapped against legs, hands slowed-clapped in mockery. But our striker has not moved, will not move. He is out, out of reach, out of the game. He is where ever it was he wanted to be, where ever that was, what ever it was he would rather have been. A Poet? Or a Player?
© Berenice Dunford 2003
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