Eddie Gibbons

AT MELTING POINT

I am here and you are there.
As a couple we are incomplete.
Perhaps the two of us should meet
at Melting Point in Golden Square.

I promise I will be discreet.
You’ll hardly even know I’m there.
You say you might as well stay where?
At Freezing Point on Silver Street?

Then meet me at the Lemon Tree.
Last year I nearly met you there.
Or that place we missed by inches. Where?
Yes – Books and Beans, if you are free.

Please sit at that window seat
I walked straight past this time last year.
Tonight I won’t be late, I swear.
Where’s Freezing Point on Silver Street?

I am here and you are there.
Without you I am incomplete.
One of us, at least, should meet
at Melting Point in Golden Square.

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THE STARLIGHT CUP

Two coats are best for posts.
The bar defined by stars.
The ball, a small elusive
animal at twilight.

Two kids are best for this,
this game without a name;
this thrall, this all-consuming
spell of moonlight.

Hours are devoured.
Dark is the park.
In a blink the Sink estate
fades from view.

Sounds are muffled,
baffled in the lee of trees.
Only one stark bark
pierces through.

The Dream Team plays deep
into the night; no fright
will scare them aware,
shake their belief

that there’s no relegation
from imagination –
nothing in the street can beat
this wakeful sleep.

The prize they win tonight
is theirs to keep.

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RITUAL

Some run on the pitch
for their first kick,
others touch the grass,
lift the hand to their mouths,
kiss a finger, bless
themselves, and this
is a sacrament, a wish
for assistance to assess
the flight of the toss,
the height of the pass,
the weight of the cross.

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THE SCORE

Having missed a score of chances,
the goal the scorer thought he’d scored
was scratched off the scoresheet for offside,

so the scoreline remained scoreless.
A win would have secured the club –
their name inscribed on the cup.

Instead, they had a score to settle
with the referee, who manifestly
had not scored for seasons.

As if to underscore the sore
feelings (the goal was a scorcher)
the forward fuelled the discord

by his scurrilous retorts to the linesman –
his scorching invective pouring scorn
on the poor man’s bloodline.

Perilously close to physical assault,
Security provided his sour encore –
he was summarily escorted from the pitch.

His manager’s shrug offered little succour –
he’d been in the game long enough
to known the score.

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THE LIMERICK OF ANGELA'S ASHES

There was a young urchin called Frank
whose childhood apparently stank.
His mother’s ashes
made him stashes
which he locks in a Limerick bank.

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TAKING OFF EMILY DICKINSON’S KIT

It was harder for poor Billy C. –
He was the first to navigate
Those catches, straps and whalebone stays.

The task should be much easier today –
I have only to negotiate
Her strip sans frippery or lingerie.

Her Arctic Ms.demeanour suits
The film of Wintergreen she’s spread
From calf to frigid inner thigh.

Loaded guns, her ten-league boots –
For midweek and for Saturdays –
(She shuns the Sabbath games on Sky.)

A froidian slip? A hint of thaw?
Before the match I saw her touch
The This Is Amherst sign.

Bewildered by her no-score drawers,
That act of passion made me clutch
Her bonnet at full time.

Alas! Her boots were too straight-laced.
When I offered to remove her kit
She made a sudden dash for it –

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