Who would have guessed that a small tree

could be so vicious. All day you had kicked

the new football back and forth against

the gable of the red brick terrace and

not even the promise of ice cream could

coax you away, until the Blackthorn spoilt the game.

That’s when you ran back, holding the thing

with your thumb pressed white against its skin.

You begged me for some...

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David Coldwell reads The Football at the 2013 Derwent Poetry Festival.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-jGZ58WLDvo 

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