The end of the game



The writhing crowd

had gone its myriad ways.


The still ground

is covered with

the excrement

of the crowd’s joy.


And the faint echoes

of the screaming

and chanting

mass of civilisation

can just be heard,

though the seats

are empty

and the stands

echo with the

whistle of the chill wind.


There on the ground

the flag of

the losing side

lays trodden,

among the cans

and half eaten

packets of fast food.


This is the

end of the game,

with nothing left

except the memories

of what was played

and what will be re-played

by those who

contested and witnessed

the now silent event.