What would it
be like without Lineker
The gladiator
turned commentator?
The stifled
cries of caged animals
Gave the
restless crowd no answer.
The blue lid of
the roofless arena
Was an
empyrean. A vulture circled
Lazily. The
bird was in no hurry.
Scavengers do
not honour the dead.
A painted sign
intrigued those who were there
‘Enjoy Walkers
crisps’, it said.
The ball was
pleasingly spherical –
Certainly an
improvement on last year.
Eleven players a
side, all human
Covered the field
of play effectively.
Their movements
were graceful.
A small, wiry
man, more agile than the rest
Weaved like a
shuttle, in intricate patterns.
He was the
best. The crowd groaned
As a javelin
pierced his chest.
Time was
stretched. The crowd held its breath.
A sabre
flashed. His severed head
Dropped neatly
to the floor.
The astonished
crowd breathed out.
Its sigh
curdled into a blood roar.
Grace had been
shown in death.
Honour had been
satisfied.
As the bronzed Linker would have said
If he had been there.
Only blue and
red of the arena
Would satiate
them today.
The vulture, an
eye’s blink away
Caught the
rising scent of fresh gore.