Stanford Bridge, Chelsea…
Football Poets
Stopping By The Bridge On A Snowy Evening
whose ground this is we surely know
yet so unrecognizable in snow
and I my glee can barely hide
to find these gates so open wide –
my little dog must think it strange
to stop with neither sound nor game
he gives his furry head a shake
as if to say “for heaven’s sake”
as icicles upon the stand
hang pointing like some outstretched hand
more purer than the blankest page
this dazzling winter football stage
more magic now than euro ties
or times when we the giants surprise –
or days when sun beat down on grass
as golden as some Zola pass
and where so many sit and yell
there’s only me to feel and tell
save for a flag with pigeons on
who with a flurried flake are gone
no markings here to see at all
no ground-staff player coach or ball
but I’m enraptured by the sight
of snow-bound terraces of white –
while all around in empty streets
brave motorists will make retreats
and slide through London’s transformed land
like skaters in some wonderland..
how to a standstill weather brings
a stop to more important things
and where there should be Wolves at home
I stand here silent and alone –
and think on all who ever stood
or sat through seasons bad and good
a hundred years upon this bridge
more cold and bleak than any fridge..
from Bovril to rosettes and tea
from hooligans to luxury
from Lawton’s hair to Dynamos
Roy Bentley to John Sillett’s nose
from our old Shed to private suites
to walking home through crowded streets
Paul Cannoville and Nevin’s style
I ponder on it all a while
but I have miles of motorway
twixt home and all that I survey
and soon so soon I must return
to where my cottage fire will burn –
but still i stand like referees
upon awarding penalties
to share in wonder as I go
the beauty of a ground in snow
©Crispin Thomas 2004
With deep respect to Robert Frost .Written upon being invited in 2004 to run and undertake football poetry workshops with schools in London in conjunction with Chelsea FC and in particular to attend with the children involved )a special Christmas Party with Stuart Butler the players at Stamford Bridge in December 2004.
It set me to thinking of a long gone post-Christmas winter one January when as a sensitive and highly impressionable child the famous Big Freeze set in, and games were off for what seemed like weeks. Because my school (Sloane Grammar in Hortensia Road, Chelsea), overlooked the Blues’ ground , I noticed during one cold Friday lunch-break that the big old blue wooden gates (also now long gone) had been left open ! I nipped out of the school-yard, crept in, and found the hallowed space empty and covered in snow.I have never forgotten that moment .
