Man of the Match
You swore at me and hurled your ring into the pond
then drove off back to London “for some bloody fun”
with friends whose Chelsea coven held you in its bond.
I was next in, scored twelve and hit the winning run.
The beers were long and cool, the Captain shook my hand.
Dusk shaded in, a final liquid blackbird sang.
A coughing tractor crawled a strip of fading land.
An owl flew low across the pitch, a church bell rang.
Two muddy urchins with a shrimp-net dredged the pond
their hopeful piping rippling in the cooling air
while you choked on exhaust at Guildford or beyond
along your golden road to Knightsbridge and Sloane Square.
Another world and just two perfect hours away
your eyes had been bright green. Or brown. Or were they blue?
I still recall the details of that Summer day
so much more clearly than I now remember you.
Martin Parker
If you have any thoughts about this
poem, Martin Parker
would like to hear them
