Thomas Mulhall

GEORGIE, GEORGIE


It's not just him, of course
It's what
                        he represents
To those sad-eyed, middle-aged men in their pubs
With shaking heads and faint smiles in huddles recalling
That nearly-dance across the scattered football field
The sheer adventure of that dance, that stylised glory
So brief before the star was obscured by fog
A sharpened flower that was battered by poisoned sleet
Falling over
                        in graceless
                                                and painful
                                                                        slow-motion
For those sad-eyed, middle-aged men in their pubs
With shaking heads and faint smiles in huddles recalling
From childhood to boyhood up to young-manhood
When everything seemed possible, the future an ocean
With what could've been, what should've been but most important of all
What was
                        my God
                                                what was