ABE LENSTRA Poem by Rutger Kopland

We were at the match, it was raining and blowing a gale,
surrounded by the smell of cigars, wet grass and wet men,

a roaring and stamping of feet around us,
football was war, even then.

Father, do you remember how for a second it became dead-still,
the ball came, came out of the grey sky
and blew in front of the goal,

no one had seen he was standing there.

Do you remember how he then just nodded his head,
almost humbly, almost shyly, almost in apology.

We had lost before we realized. Abe.