You called it a chat about tidying

up your affairs of state, the long way off

day in which I would be left alone

to deal with the phone calls

and the letters

and you sat back in the gathering cold,

arms folded and I saw in your eyes

that perhaps it was not as

long away as I thought.

 

We talked of football,

nearly always the same topic of conversation

we had always had, spliced occasionally

with talk, mostly from me,

of theatre and of visiting home.

Talking of football was always ours,

the Sunday mornings down

the back fields,

five shots on goal

and then in,

eight teams, quick F.A. Cup

for the fans and it was always

your four teams through to the semis

and my borrowed two

knocked out after that…

Villa always seemed to win.

 

“Write a book”, came the sentence uttered

with sincerity and feeling as the Eastleigh

winger tore past the Crewe defence

“Write a book before I leave, you don’t write

enough”, I could but only smile

as it was the first acknowledgement,

your way of saying,

that you had read my work

at some point

and I sobbed inside

as I had left it perhaps

too late to earn that praise.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015