Between the Lines

Sallow and waxed, and hairs unruled abound,
Crows feet settled, long settled into their nests,
A little shorter, more curved to the ground,
In need of death's final unending rest.

Her stoop to greet me and mouthy first kiss,
Left an aroma of oldness yet hard to shift,
Her pleated quilt skirt and hair band hard to miss,
Tell of story of unnecessary thrift.

Would be bade to take short leave,
But this face old and crinkled with thin cut lines,
Sprinkled a sweet pollen dust,
Of loves loved and lifes yet to shine.

Reading between the lines, no romance will you find,
Angry words and slammed doors have scoured,
But also summer dawns and settled silence,
Between these lines are choices to hope, faith to dimly see
And courage to stumble on with no spite,
Until these lines frame a face too wonderful for me

Deacons Meetings...

If Marx said that religion is the opiate of the masses, I say deacon meetings are sedatives of the saints.

World Cup Memories The Early Years

I was born a year before the 1982 world cup. Being a late developer on the language and communication front, I missed it. No doubt Motty and Barry Davies were there in full flow, Motty with his endless stream of obscure barely related, i-have-researched-this-so-you-are-bloody-well-going-to-hear-how-many-brothers-iran's-wonderboy-has, and davies' more refined, and less entertaining patter. I can imagine Des enjoying a sangria or two before action was called.

I passed on the 1986 tournament too, where my late development had now progressed to the status of british rail trains - long awaited and not entirely satisfying on arrival. Still struggling with my vowels and consonants when midegty Maradonna, whose name throughout my childhood remained indistinguishable from the cone breasted queen of pop which lead to many a puzzled playground conversation, pierced English dreams with a handy moment of up yours maggie thatcher lefty cynicism and a surging, electrifying, dribble who used peter reid and terry fenick to weave an argentine masterpiece.

I will remember the Italy 1990 for so many things: the best ever world cup programme song (nessun dorma for the unintiated), incontrovertible evidence that jimmy hill and his chin should be put out to pasture after his comment that romania's players had all dyed their hair blonde to gain a tactical advantage (although on second thought this might have been at USA 1994), cameron beating argentina in their first match and roger millia co-opting a corner flag as a dance partner. but most of all i will remember england, glorious england led by the slippery tongued grey fox robson, whose words seemed to come coated with mucus. I remember the archetypal nottingham dweller, david platt, scoring a swiveling volley against schifo's belgium. I remember a dazzling gazza pulling a cruyff past two defenders and rushing out into the garden with my sister to re-enact it. I remember the utter trauma of being sent to my bunk during extra time against cameron and thinking the adults are crap. and at last i remember the passion of seeing lineker strike a bobbling ball into the corner of the goal after the slow motion ricohet off paul parker's arse beyond shilton. and finally i remember crying, crumpled on our landing when a mulleted waddle smashed his penalty high and handsome and robson's face said it all.