Cheers for the Voice that is missing

It’s so long since I uploaded any new poems I thought I’d do a few. This one is about a church member who died earlier this year and who was a season ticket holder at Peterborough United (The Posh). I wrote this in his memory.

Standing, the crowd,

cheering aloud

for a loyal supporter in blue

who for years got cold

through winters grew old

as he gazed from his pensioner’s throne

do him proud

come on

delicately thread the pass,

place a cross

and with a touch of class

reveal you are truly Posh.

his voice has fallen silent

and his family is gathered around

without him to stand and call,

scream

pass the bloody ball,

do him proud

come on

delicately thread the pass,

place a cross

and with a touch of class

reveal you are truly Posh.

Then they rise and cheer,

suddenly surprised

on a day when an impossible result provides

hope for the stuttering throng.

They have watched each week

the tumblers, the cheats,

the decisions of refs whose pronouncements are deplorable

they have doubted and believed

occasionally been deceived

by the brilliance they questioned possible.

do him proud

come on

delicately thread the pass,

place a cross

and with a touch of class

reveal you are truly Posh.

For a voice has been lost

fallen silent; the cost

of grief born from love

not for a team,

but a man, simple, his dream,

to watch one more game

in the company of family and friend.

do him proud

come on

delicately thread the pass,

place a cross

and with a touch of class

reveal you are truly Posh.

K’s last hours

I wrote this today for a gentle saint, with whom I spent some of the last hours of her life:

 

Beneath the veil of sheets

a sleeping agent creeps;

administering her calming whisper

that touches mind and heart,

leading to a quieter night,

more still than any that preceded.

 

The slow vibrato of a pulse

reminding, between cluttered breaths,

that life has not absconded

to the next room,

but waits to eavesdrop

on related conversations

and distant recounted memories.

 

Pauses, in the colloquy,  

lead to the contemplation

of death

who impinges on the silence:

reminding each

of the consequence

of mortal life.