The number ten passed the ball

of black pentagons and white hexagons

Onto the bright branded toe. Pumped

hard by an old Goat with failing eyes,

it scurried on the double along the

clipped green thatch of grass

and synthetic inserts.

(Fake- like the old Goat crown on the

vain skipper from yesteryear.

He who returned from Turkey with

hair soft and fluffy like goose down.

Scraped from his inside leg and

implanted in his shiny, talc-dusted pate;

his cloudy eyes delight in the minimal

regrowth. He combs over reflections

of time past. He endures his assigned tasks

of ground and ball keeper. He feasted

for a decade on the day that he won).

Dribbled by the receiver goal-wards

across the white painted lines

tightened and limed over again

to cover up the wandering, meandering

traces of the old Goat. Passed back to ten,

the new charging goat struck a horn-hard strike

that whacked the middle of the crossbar

and spun suspended, while tens of thousands

slurped the air out of the stadium.

The outrushing roar echoed and rebounded

longer than the shake in the shape shifting net.

The old Goat sat back and sad smiled,

touching the softness of his down,

until he was lifted shoulder high and presented

to the newest in the line of heroes.

He could hear his final whistle blowing

as he passed on the glory crown.

Yesterday’s old Goats appear seldom

as the distance to their years grows.

Meanwhile, the future secretly

prepares another new kid.

John Atkinson is a nomadic writer. Having visited over 90 countries in 30 years he finds the world is best seen as it is, rather than how we might wish it to be. He is Irish and father of 3 adult children.

https://www.johnatkinson.irish/