Matchday Blues You did not go to the game with me, You never went. But you were always happy for me to go, while you would be at work, Or perhaps in retail therapy. In later days too weak, in bed, too frail to do either, But I always knew that you would be there, Still my rock, still at home on my return. And at that reunion we would exchange the score, 'How did you do?' drifting softly down the stairs, Or I, bursting through the door would shout 'We won!' And in return would come 'I know, I saw it, thank the Lord'. I still go to the game alone, No different then, from before. You were always happy for me to go, To be with friends in shared emotion, returning drained. So what difference now, at six o'clock, on my return, Apart from creeping through the door, no matter whether pain or glory. Only the silence, no question, no point in calling out the score, No one with whom to share the sense of loss or joy of gain, No one to sooth my hurt at wrong decisions which doubtless led to our defeat, No one with plans for the evening still to come. No one. Just echoes, shadows, Like an empty stadium an hour past the game. No one. Inspired by Thomas Hardy's poem, 'The Walk'