Not often con brio, but andante, andante,
horseless, though jockey-like and jaunty,
Straddling the touchline, live margin
not out of the game, nor quite in,
Made by him green and magnetic, stroller
Indifferent as a cat dissembling, rolling
A little as on deck, till the mouse, the ball,
slides palely to him,
And shyly, almost with deprecatory cough, he is off.
Head of a Perugino, with faint flare
Of the nostrils, as though Lipizzaner-like,
he sniffed at the air,
Finding it good beneath him, he draws
Defenders towards him, the ball a bait
They refuse like a poisoned chocolate,
retreating, till he slows his gait
To a walk, inviting the tackle, inciting it.
Till, unrefusable, dangling the ball at the instep
He is charged – and stiffening so slowly
It is rarely perceptible, he executes with a squirm
Of the hips, a twist more suggestive than apparent,
that lazily disdainful move toreros term
a Veronica – it’s enough.
Only emptiness following him, pursuing some scent
Of his own, he weaves in towards,
not away from, fresh tacklers,
Who, turning about to gain time, are by him
harried, pursued not pursuers.
Now gathers speed, nursing the ball as he cruises,
Eyes judging distance, noting the gaps, the spaces
Vital for colleagues to move to, slowing a trace,
As from Vivaldi to Dibdin, pausing,
and leisurely, leisurely, swings
To the left upright his centre, on hips
His hands, observing the goalkeeper’s spring,
heads rising vainly to the ball’s curve
Just as it’s plucked from them; and dispassionately
Back to his mark he trots, whistling through closed lips.
Trim as a yacht, with similar lightness
- of keel, of reaction to surface – with salt air
Tanned, this incomparable player, in decline fair
to look at, nor in decline either,
Improving like wine with age, has come far –
born to one, a barber, who boxed
Not with such filial magnificence, but well.
‘The greatest of all time,’ meraviglioso, Matthews –
Stoke City, Blackpool and England.
Expressionless enchanter, weaving as on strings
Conceptual patterns to a private music, heard
Only by him, to whose slowly emerging themeHe rehearses steps, soloist in the compulsions of a dream.