There Flies The Wayward Arrow Poem by Francis Curran

There goes a ball on a penalty spot,
And with it, dying dreams dashed, and hope hoofed
Up over a cross bar; into the juddering arms
Of a delirious roar, singing and swaying in praise
And proclamation of crowning champions.
For a giant gobbling silverware, that’s grabbed and snatched
From other giants, clinking the well cut glass
And slapping on backs in a hallowed boardroom.

There is the wake of silence, and spilt tears
Muffled in the walls of a well-thumped changing room.
The fading homage and defiance of a chant,
Spilling out, the indefatigable devotion
Down the other end of a steel boot black country town.
Sent packing back to dismantling and dreaming,
And the slogging of its guts-
Out, gruelling in such long and crippling seasons.

There, on the last leg and final bend,
Drops the fumbling baton and the gold
Within grasp, now to be kissed and tallied
To a grateful nation, that flashes past
The dead coronation of greek like gods,
Tumbling from a podium onto old fat men
And drooping flags between slumped knees;
Shoving a rolling head out of a back door.