Coventry City

The pitch was the mountainside,
a snow storm swirled,
the ball flew into the net,
without return.

Now, the pitch lies empty,
an abandoned stage,
the Gods have vacated
the mountain clouds.

The giants of Coventry
are remembered here still
for after the match
they descended with us.

In the valley of the river
we were lost.

Sit by the water
and you may hear.

Can I hide here?

The tournament is gone,
swallowed sickly and crumbs,
all the sugar doesn’t hide
the bitter slime.

No reply from those hours sent,
green postage stamps
to a childhood
stalked by Gods.

Is it me,
or is it them?

Now the season approaches,
Goliaths and Davids switching sides,
swelling starry nights,
with twitching dreams.

The headlines fill,
stories you’ve seen
full of gas
that will not last.

The little figures
that came alive
amassed in armies
and harsh voices.

Is it me
or is it them?

Where to turn?
With walls surround,
blasts abound,
the back pages still warm.