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.
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