Pinault will play bagatelle
with Parky, Gritts and Crowe
and nets will fill like trawlers long ago.
Then Autumn will come lurking
where the Osmond meets the Main,
reminding us of Tees, of Keats
remembering swallows;
and other times when April skies were deeper
than azure in the season's flight.
But in the end we'll get what we deserve,
frequent disappointment, occasional despair;
and faith will be proved foolish
when fate comes looming
like an iceberg from a fantasy of fog.
Pontoon voices will be hoarse,
tears will mark our lined and tired faces,
and Barrett's ghosts will groan.
For this is what it means to be us;
the good times come like dreams
to be forgotten, mostly,
and quickly when we wake
as the cold comes creeping off the Humber.
