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Kate Woodward is telling tales again

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poetry

The black dog

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Come in old pal, I’ve saved your place
beside me, where your loyal soul will stay,
and leaning on me, comfort find,
while mine all drains away.
I can’t be cruel, I’ll let you stay.
I’ll feed and lavish you with love
and when you leave — pray God you do —
remember where I live.

By Kate Woodward

The Beautiful Game

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I don’t count, they think I’m a joke,

the only girl with all these blokes.

But I’m listening and I’m learning,           

reading everything concerning

the beautiful game.

I follow 5Live and TalkSport

and I know who’s been sold and bought,

who’s on the bench, who’s injured

and who’s the fastest winger in

the beautiful game.

I want to share my opinions.

Was that striker worth his millions?

Should that goal be disallowed?

Was the trouble from the crowd at

the beautiful game?

I’m never gonna get heard:

a girl and football – how absurd!

To think that I could care who wins

or know the rules that underpin

the beautiful game.

And yes, I know the offside rule,

don’t treat me like a bleedin’ fool

‘cos, these days, hear what I’m saying:

us girls are on the pitch and playing

the beautiful game.

Below

Below

I have fought my bed, this night, for sleep.
Elastic hours that stretched and yawned
have heckled, tossed and heaped on scorn.
And I, in forcing breath to slow, and eyes to close,
have battled bed-sheets, barking limbs
and longed to slip
below,
below.

I have fought my bed, this night, for sleep.
Against my will – a spring armed foe,
swathed softly, trading blow for blow.
And I, in lying, legs just so, must hold the line;
keep back those massing, legion fears
that day break drives
below,
below.

I have fought my bed, this night, for sleep,
and watched the clock count rest’s escape
from pillows pummelled hard as hate.
And I must bid all dreams goodbye; give up the fight,
for night’s sly troops, though fallen back,
are digging in –
below.

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