Grey Skies

Grey Skies

Sunday morning football,
Bitter cold.
Pale skies.

A national institution to rival the devoutful,
Both bearing with patience
The scorn of these climes.

Frozen hands and numb limbs.
Every bit just as much screaming for salvation

As the rest of them.
Except not for consolation,
But for a hot running bath,

And an oven roast.
Not for us a clear conscience
Sought in chapels and spires.

But the mud
And the rough and the tumble
Of men being made boys,

Who have no foibles
For whom competition is King
And morality is in the win.

A game to be played
On the field with a ball.

But later still,
with the lives of men,
In war torn countries and in the boardroom.

Where morality is a bye word,
A lie word.

Not anchored to an absolute tradition,
But left to blow by blow.

Nor less culpable,
Than those that of heaven, sing.

Just a newer way,
To the same gaol.

Soon the north wind will begin to bite...

End.

---------------------------------------

Addendum.

Soon the north wind will begin to bite.

Bite and Chaff.

Safe is he with firm shield,
Blessed be he who holds the pass.

And guided be he,
That knows that might,

Might not be right.


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