He's a patient man,
he cups his hand against the wind
to light his fag as the game gets underway.
Nods, they'll shape up nice this year
the under eights.
With a lift of his arm and a call,
like a shepherd signalling his dogs,
he'll nudge a winger back in place.
picks out the sub,
sets him running down the field.
All the way,
if you want to play, you'll run.
He pinches off his fag and watches everything,
good lad, well done.
Across the pitch
the knot of parents,
buggies, barking dogs.
Breath steaming for the first time this year,
trees leaning in to the end of summer.
And the boys standing
almost in their places,
hands on hips, rucked up sleeves
that dangle back below their waists
as soon as they begin to run,
deadly serious, knowing the rules
and sticking to them.
You can see, in their cool appraisal
of their game,
their shrugging acceptance of missed goals,
like shadows standing behind them,
the men they'll grow into.
But if you said to them,
this is preparation for life,
they'd laugh.
This is life,
they'd say,
we're living it.
© Rosie Garner
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