In the spangled glare of the spotlit pitch through swonking winds and turbot rains hid under depths of deep-fall snow or the blister-parch of summered days and bent under the gut-rip roar of thirty thousand furied souls with the quick peaked shriek of a whistle blown how else can know when we’ve gone too far and where our boundaries are? These days there’s techno-fixes true but between me and you an old-fashioned line across a park remains the only way to mark the lines in which we play to know if what we’ve scored can be called a goal.
Copyright © Jack Houston 2015
Jack Houston works within Hackney’s public library service. He is a poetry editor at nutshellmagazine.com