There’s no way through the sound.
There’s only the route we found
and the stories abound:
stories without grounds.
There’s no way through the wall.
The handholds are gone when you fall
and the people have gone
because your technique is wrong.
There’s no way round the bend.
The road’s closed off at the end:
cliffs above drop below
and there’s no turn in the road.
There’s no way through the sound.
There’s only the route we found
and the stories abound:
stories without grounds.
The globe provided a live weather report
to boldly interrupt the thoughts
of an 8-year-old science lover
with news of constant Colorado storms
and scattered showers when you zoom into Sonning.
That contraption, with its right proportions,
torque and granular mountain relief
was the height of technology:
didn’t stop speaking.
It collapsed imagination
to hotel and seaside idylls projected on a screen
and snapshots of eternal sun
over low desert lodges.
This world gives us so much
but where is its charging cable
and can we explore the Free State without bluetooth?
The original world was more of a sketch;
great continents fused then left.
It was the work of an impressionist,
with an extra light that held deep space
projected into dots and shapes while you’re dreaming.
That model gave us space, and, as you said,
this other world is still plugged in;
this other world is lit up from within.
Report on club website – champions!
Written by me, uploaded by Coach Pete
https://www.wefc.club/news/u13-rangers-v-winnersh-barbarians-2703962.html
It was like that angst in the chest
you mentioned, but then it exploded.
My self was in a hundred fragments.
All I had was a bed and a skylight,
a window on the incomprehensible.
Drifting off, I muddled cliffs and gardens:
Was it West Bay, Lyme Regis or Sidmouth?
Football grounds merged: part Brunton Park,
part Craven Cottage, part kickabout
at the old MK hockey stadium
with Oxford United reserves –
or were they off duty cinema workers?
About 12 0′ Clock, somehow scrambling up
for toast and a roll up, with a roll down
whiteboard scattergraph of faults,
their points the day’s shielded stars
all isolated from their cause,
it was like that angst in the chest again,
but then it broke. Now you’re out
at this car park. ‘No fear’ and ‘One life: live it’
on the back of a Mitsubishi Warrior,
deep azure ocean beneath wild camping grounds
picked up in the eyes and a blue O’Neill shirt.
This new hope is tentative. Will there be enough
finding gaps between or augmenting major league
prescription drugs, all the dietary limitations,
the social times for which you’re out of action?
It was like that angst, but then it broke
from its containment, lost its physical presence
to all our winding rivers of memory,
took root in close family and distant friends.
I can’t describe the feeling so say ‘fixed’
and ‘broken’, currents surging to a tsunami.
I sometimes wish there was a sole conductor
to form a single melody from all our memories.
Clun
Clun is the quietest place in England
if you can also quieten your mind.
You’ll never see it around the headland;
Clun is the quietest place in England.
Though you’re kicking up a stretch of sand,
there is a bench and park no-one can find.
Clun is the quietest place in England
if you can also quieten your mind.
Two Jabs
Two jabs or two jags, the illness comes after
high points and low lights, whatever you’ve seen.
Buoyed up by syrups, compounds and laughter;
Two jabs or two jags, the illness comes after.
Against any danger, always a grafter;
you sense what’s coming, a long time since green.
Two jabs or two jags, the illness comes after
high points and low lights, whatever you’ve seen.
The Old Theologian
Says the old theologian, kind eyes, slight smile:
‘Here are ten thousand words to add to the Lord’s.’
If a person says ‘Walk with me’, go one extra mile
says the old theologian, kind eyes, slight smile.
On Zoom with the bookshelves, home life on trial,
he could only get over a few broken chords.
Says the old theologian, kind eyes, slight smile:
‘Here are ten thousand words to add to the Lord’s.’
I followed it over the new school,
a spire touching fingertips with God,
and temporary traffic by Sol Jol Park –
the syntax of the wind.
I thought about its temporary graces
collapsing vessels in rubicund faces,
setting down a hoarding or Caution:
Changed Priorities sign –
the syntax of an isolated gust shifted cedar in the dusk.
That’s the power between spaces and dots,
an ellipsis gone before we cycle through the verbs.
Now the hills are not quite full stops.
In contrast to the highest city peace walls
the syntax of the wind finds fraternities of silence
in lowland weather systems
we can’t see meeting.
On this southern shoreline, weathered signs
are falsely worn above a film of sand,
surfboards and designer clothing brands.
On rocks off the quay, close to the deep,
spot the line of the horizon, Smuggler’s Cove,
fulmars in restive dives off the stern
of Carpe Diem alone in its rust
in the wind above a herring army.
Voices on the breeze call nightly
into nothing but air
and far co-ordinates of memory.
Do transmigrating souls mix with the wind
in fixed gazes of fishermen?
You won’t find the smoking solitary man
or his flat-coated retriever in the old hotel.
This new century does admin on the recent past.
It watches itself talking through touchscreen glass,
hoping for you to ‘hit the like’ and subscribe –
hoping for some more thumbs up.
Wind-ruffled oaks in common grasses;
a castle that stands in swathes of time.
Do we need these places so we feel small and free
disappearing ripples on a constant sea?
Venture across soft grass and concomitant nettles,
interloper on royal grounds, taught to show reverence.
A Quaker would never bow, except to divine energy,
cumulonimbi piling up over a sequoia treeline
seen from a town centre car-park top.
Lost in the National Trust’s gold and green
insipid Crown Estate heraldry, you forgive great men
foibles, would rather they were private.
Isolated villages, Great Park council properties;
You’re a child with inferiority signposted daily
in ancient stone, drawbridges, Range Rovers.
A prince marries in a Christian church,
hears a standard gospel message: the family smirks.
These ancient oaks, Mildmay plantings,
are so much less derisive. Yes, lose yourself,
your ego, self-importance, conceited dreams
of greatness: lose it in great rivers,
unknown nebulae, at just a glimpse
of someone who stands apart through learning
or instinct; lose yourself before a farmer
who humbly read the weather, a taxi driver
who baffled with all the London streets,
a player who created time when others snatched.
Never lose yourself to fortifications,
a curated garden, some farcical sage green
punt at prestige, falsely weathered wood
or new authentic signage, those people
who filter the Holy Land through Instagram:
‘Here’s a picture of me wading through the Jordan,
beyond the profane; here’s one by the holy sepulchre,
hope I got the lighting right and you see me
in Jesus’ footsteps. I’m wearing a hoodie &
a cowboy hat as per the megachurch uniform
so young people can relate to me.
Hope you can ignore the salary,
but look at the followers, the reach,
and who I’ve saved from hellfire –
hope you’ll forgive me.’
From the first Berkshire Youth Development League game (throwback here: https://wilderspoolcauseway.com/2015/09/12/woodleyzebras11we2/) where there was a ‘raw blend of hairstyles, philosophies and haircuts on the Wokingham side’ to the last, today at Prospect Park, there have been huge changes to the profile of the team – with only Evan and Connor remaining from that first game – but not so much to its identity. They still obdurately play the ball out from the back, along the floor. This has led to too many perilous defensive situations to recount, as time and time again the full backs find themselves under huge pressure when receiving the ball – but, unsurprisingly, they have therefore learned to deal with the ball under pressure. Other teams may launch the ball through the air, but have players who remain uncomfortable with the ball on the ground, which isn’t ideal when the game is called ‘football.’ As Brian Clough said: ‘If God had wanted us to play football in the clouds, he’d have put grass up there.’
Wokingham also still prioritise skill and quality of play over the final score. They therefore adhere to the current F.A. guidance that players should be encouraged to take risks, make mistakes, be creative and have time on the ball. This is because historically there was/is a cultural problem in the U.K. which means that individual expression is automatically deemed selfish – in the 80’s if you had the ball at your feet for more than two seconds you would be screamed at by teammates and supporters alike to ‘get rid of it’. In my own case, the parents were best described as resembling the cast of Only Fools and Horses: one of them was even a T.V. racing pundit – so much like Boycie it was unbelievable – who would run across the pitch with his long coat and big cigar to shout at the manager or ref at any moment he needed some emotional release – the others would just shout random stuff like ‘Oi!’ and ‘Are you listening to me?’ and ‘Get Out!’ (We played a high line – so high that the defence were screamed at if they weren’t on the halfway line at all times). If you don’t have the ball, though, you can’t become very good at the game, obviously, and that is ultimately why so many other countries with similar populations have far, far surpassed England; they don’t attach any stigma to the football – they see the ball itself as a good thing and treat it accordingly.
It’s only in recent years that the F.A. have woken up to this and changed their official policies to value creativity. They’ve seen that allowing a bullying culture means that a load of thugs make it as professionals, but they then can’t deal with other national teams who are much larger part footballer and much lesser part thug. This new culture only permeates grass roots football though, if managers – i.e. parents who grew up playing in the 70’s and 80’s when you were just supposed to launch the ball anywhere and mainly fight physical rather than footballing battles – can have the vision to drop their egos, take a long term view and not worry about the scores of individual games.
This is easier said the done, but Evan’s team have been blessed with brilliant coaches, Pete Mulvaney being the constant presence over 6 years; he shows unbelievable attention to detail – but they are not the details that most people typically value. If you ask him the final score at the end of the game or who we were playing against (or even, to be honest, where we are) he will genuinely have to rack his brains to remember and will invariably get it slightly wrong – he just doesn’t remember those details. If you ask him about a particular player, though, it’s a completely different story – he will be able to give a nuanced and detailed account of how they played, picking up on all kinds of subtleties the other viewers would not have seen. He will also then project forward as to exactly how he sees that player developing, and the positions they will be taking up in 6 months, a year or even 2 or 3 years later. Despite being a prolific goalscorer himself, he doesn’t especially privilege the scoring of a goal over any other skill, and at the end of the game might give a goal the same billing as a run someone made, a position taken up, a thoughtful pass or even an intention gone awry.
To be fair to the manager, it can be quite tricky to get a grip on the identity of opponents in this league. There are 10 teams in the division, and many are named after recognisable places such as Calcot or Pangbourne, but some have names which are harder to grasp like ‘Centre Skills’ – this one is confusing; does it mean they practise skills at a centre? If so, where is the centre? Or are the skills performed in the centre of the pitch? What are the skills? The name kind of functions in an abstract way like North West Pangs of Conscience FC or Adjacent Tendonitis-on-Loddon. And Whitenights, surely, is an Estate Agents – would their supporters arrive in suits between Saturday morning viewings to see how their little leaflet droppers were doing?
They train, predictably, at the Whiteknights campus of The University of Reading – but where do they come from? What’s the vibe? Regardless of the total mystery surrounding them, they played in quite a straightforward style – well organised, nothing too flashy and lots of prodding and probing down the flanks for little reward until their centre forward managed a fantastic lob from outside the box just before half time. Wokingham generally had more of the ball but were a bit too impulsive; they needed to calm down, lift their heads up and adopt a different perspective on life, but they did come back into the game well in the second half, culminating in Connor scoring an excellent left-footed volley from a corner to win the game after he and Evan entered the fray having taking their turns on the bench in the first half. Evan took a while to settle, but then found his customary range of passing and particularly helped in quick transitions from defence to attack. This was a good game and a fitting end to the BYDL era with Connor scoring the final goal after Evan scored the first, 6 years ago. The team also secured 3rd place and now probably face dispiriting trips to places like Colnbrook for 11-a-side games next season.
From Slough Sewage Works
to a football field in Uxbridge;
Can you spot the Ring-billed Gull
among the others?
Portland Bill, in raptures:
first a Desert Wheatear,
then a Ring Ouzel.
And where was the heath,
that hot March with the Crossbills?
Whatever is on the line,
we follow the majesty
to places thought unvisitable.
Something’s blown in on tumbledown winds
so pack the flapjacks
and start the Passat.
We’re off to Vauxhall Sand Martins,
gravel pits and estuary flats,
seabirds slotted between tower blocks –
cormorants off the Isle of Dogs.
Can you sense the sea
by St Edmund’s, Millwall,
reflected back in shallows
of the outer dock?
We’ll mark the species off –
more than a hundred in twelve hours –
from Slough Sewage Works
to a football field in Uxbridge,
from the post-dawn grey
of Portland Bill
to an equivalent dusk
on Bugsby’s marshes.
Wilderspool Causeway 