The Green Field

He was left back I was right back,

on opposite sides of The Green Field,

we defended the same attacks.

Not only from the pace of wingers,

but from the peer-pressure of the game.

Most days we controlled the ball, letting nothing inside the guard.

But sometimes I would dread those early Sundays, the macho ways,

and the ball would drift beyond my control, as puberty froze me

like an unknown breath behind me.

And as he began to lead, with such vitality,

he played for the joys of pain and injury.

I remember playing for the same bruises and muddy results,

only on the day my granddad died.

And there was some great difference between him, and me:

him with focus, me with a wondering interest

in other games off The Green Field.

He however, remained focused on one interest.

He’d turn flip back pages, skipping the rest.

He’d check results religiously.

His manly passions were as same as the next.

This was not for me.

I remember seeing his poor father

attempting to pass on these ceremonial ways,

whilst his child sat in the stands playing on a Gameboy.

His still soon learnt the ways of secularity. 

I saw him yesterday on a corner,

Saying hello to the cigarette that scorched him, I smiled at him

but he didn’t reply.

He just stared at the ground as if there was nothing to do but stand on street corners.

Looking as his father did, unknowingly scorned by animalisms.