Poem for the Goalie

Poor Sam Bartram was between the posts 

in the black and white days.

One day he waited too long between the posts

when a white out fog came down 

and the match was abandoned.

Players went back to the dressing room,

but Sam was left behind,

blinded by the mist.

Twenty minutes he stared at the pea souper,

unaware of his solitude but wondering

about the lack of action in the game.

A policeman in the end curtailed his vigil,

and the loneliness of the goalie was over.

I have dreamt of his monochrome hinterland,

waiting for a shot that never came,

me the last of the team to be picked,

and him the last player standing in the stadium,

the only spectator solitude and the prophesy

of war years looming ahead.

But it was all just a dream 

of when all goalies wore green

and terraces echoes with boneshaker rattles

and muted applause.

Sam Bartram alone between eternal posts,

a pearly gates goalie,

waiting to save the goal

that never comes.