Carpet

by Bryan Murphy

I’m on my knees,
fingers flicking through Indian pile,
grass-green in imagination,
smooth as Wembley turf.
My centre-forward nail
shoots,
my left-hand goalie
tips the marble away for a corner
to the sound of one hand clapping
at relegation averted
on the sole luxury item
in that returned-colonial Kentish cottage.

This one, too, is older than me.
I notice it more
now home is my default venue.
Its football-pitch shape sparks only
meditation on colours faded yet effective,
on provenance, history,
on artistry that launches illusions
of depth and movement
radiating from a lotus centre,
its very survival an augury.

The Hell! It’s just a breeding ground
of allergenic mites that I’ll not have
sear my sinuses, rash my skin, widow my lady.
Roll up those half-bare threads,
no more dreams for that theatre.
Away to the cellar!
Let twilight gleam on bare boards.