the bees dropping into the poppies in my garden
do not care that Saka’s scored a screamer
that the mood in the Red Lion over the wall
has spun on the proverbial sixpence
that the players who were not fit to wear
the shirt are now halfway to being heroes
drunk on pollen they float in evening
sunlight to salvia, lavender, and lupin
ignoring the debate about the strengths
– or not – of Trippier at left back
Kane up front, the balance in midfield and
what the hell do pundits know and they are
busy all through a penalty shootout watched
from between fingers, hearts in mouths
they do not care whether football has
a home, or if it’s going there, and when
the roar goes up, the celebration,
when the chants of Eng-er-land ring out
the bees are humming their own tune
head down in the nasturtium flowers
their view on Southgate remains unchanged.
© Steve Pottinger 7 July 2024
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