How mist falls on the football field,
wipes out the trees and bushes,
blots out the clubhouse
and the far-end goal.
The game is over:
the foul shouts,
sharp whistle,
mud thighs
have gone.

A great-tit chinks insistently.
A car door thuds. The throb
from a diesel engine rises:
the last of the away team
takes their spoil. No way
back. We scored first.
They scored twice.
They’ve taken
everything.

(written for Abingdon Share a poem – January 2024 theme – cold)