SUNDAY MORNING FOOTBALL AT PERRY HALL PLAYING FIELDS, BIRMINGHAM...

Perry Hall

Vast area, dull green.

And dark mud

Seemingly constant;

Damp, rutted, soft.

A turn-over for ankles

And after rain, pools appeared,

Which covered boots

To a shimmering sheen.

Vast acreage, dire, still.

And dingy huts

Surely condemned;

Damp, shuttered, drafty.

A hell-hole for protagonists

And after rain, puddles appeared,

Which dampened clothes

To a shivering chill.

Vast arena, draconian cage.

And dim light

Scathingly corrupt;

Damp, confined, icy.

A hiding-place for influenza

And after rain, leaks appeared,

Which splattered kit

To a communal rage.

Yet the unique sound

Of studs on wood,

A team in line-

And I understood

That I was part

Of a uniformed group,

Awaiting the call,

Like an army troop…

A glow of pride

Rifled through my chest,

As I moved in unison 

With the rest…

Maybe that was what

Conscripts could feel,

When marching where

Death’s bell would peal…

A belonging, a need

To be with others,

Where THEY go, YOU go…

In hell, your brothers.

The unique sound 

Of boots on mud,

A target in line

For a rifle’s thud…

Pete Ray

Sunday morning football at Perry Hall playing fields, Birmingham. It was always seemingly wet and dismal there. The changing rooms were disgraceful but there was something sociable about running out onto one of the far-flung pitches, often 200-300 metres from the shed…