Time surfs over one page after another.
I wonder about the interludes,
the growth or decline of lesser or greater.
A few pages
stand out, creating pinnacles of inspiration,
that rise far beyond the print.
Other poems are workmanlike,
the tools are all there,
hands can be seen delving into unknown territory,
yet stopping just short of any new frontier.
The best are alien, strange, discomforting,
distressingly real,
they arrive with laser sharp pickaxes.
Then of course, there are
those rarified nuts and bolts
all poets must reshape into the stubborn word,
the perfect symbols of imperfection.
Cometh the Season and Cometh the hour,
From our Walkers Crisps past to our new Thai King Power,
Our fearless blue foxes have lived through the dream,
Rising up to the top like the richest of cream.
It could never happen, it defied all the odds,
After all this is Leicester, not footballing gods?
But week after week our boys held to their nerve,
And they ground out the wins to get what they deserved.
Lucky whilst workmanlike labelled by most,
Powered by Buddhism or King Richard’s ghost,
Though the points all stacked up as the run carried on,
The experts were baffled at the phenomenon.
It confounded the pundits and astounded the fans,
Won with hard-work, commitment and no ‘fancy Dans’.
Ranieri kept joking with the press and nay-sayers,
But called no one an Ostrich, and didn’t choke any players.
And as the season concluded and Bocelli sang,
As the fireworks exploded closing things with a bang,
As the foxes blue army vented pleasure and pain,
In our minds nagged a question, could they do it again…