FIELD Poem by Ruth Lasters

Perhaps football really is the only goal,
of the subconscious and conscious too: two parts

quite simply because a match requires two
teams. At some point half of your neurones consciously

represent a ball, as big and heavy as the head itself, in which
beyond your control the olfactory memory grows of

newly-mown grass: the field. First the ball wins, you see it
so sharply before you, down to the stitching of your leather

skull. Then the unconscious grass perception scores, fills
your brain herby green until it almost snaps and only

the tickling of a sheet along your cheek causes a
a resetting kick-off, which will make everything possible

again.