Hubert Moore
Newport Away
Newport’s still there then, first stop
after the Severn, no distance now, a sleep
and a coffee-and-croissant from Paddington.
My friend went. Checked out the shopping,
found in some winsome glitterhouse
a jumper stylish as London or Italy.
Not like the old days. Not like Rodney Parade –
where, every October in the 1950s and 60s,
we lightweight London nancy-boys went cheerfully
to defeat. The mist was in place before us,
the home soil licked its lips: we squelched
as we ran, while the Black-and-Ambers
bulldozed through or tip-toed over the top of it.
Mining men on weekdays, their locks, their pit-props.
We could hardly embrace some of them, let alone
tackle. We were brave, of course, we had style,
our haughty side-steppers glittered a little,
long white legs in the mist. We scored once or twice.
Newport, though, they ran through us for their lives,
for their aunts and uncles, for their fathers who scored
before them, for their girls from up on the terraces.
Touching down was touching down in the valley.
Most of it’s gone, though even now I can hear
a spring-heeled Newport voice dancing clear
of the dogged throat of the system:
‘Ken Jones scored the try; Brian Jones converted.’
Beyond that, nothing: we set off for London
so smoothly we don’t even move. There are light
refreshments available, the old days
are gliding west and throughout the train
there’s a policy of no smoking.
after the Severn, no distance now, a sleep
and a coffee-and-croissant from Paddington.
My friend went. Checked out the shopping,
found in some winsome glitterhouse
a jumper stylish as London or Italy.
Not like the old days. Not like Rodney Parade –
where, every October in the 1950s and 60s,
we lightweight London nancy-boys went cheerfully
to defeat. The mist was in place before us,
the home soil licked its lips: we squelched
as we ran, while the Black-and-Ambers
bulldozed through or tip-toed over the top of it.
Mining men on weekdays, their locks, their pit-props.
We could hardly embrace some of them, let alone
tackle. We were brave, of course, we had style,
our haughty side-steppers glittered a little,
long white legs in the mist. We scored once or twice.
Newport, though, they ran through us for their lives,
for their aunts and uncles, for their fathers who scored
before them, for their girls from up on the terraces.
Touching down was touching down in the valley.
Most of it’s gone, though even now I can hear
a spring-heeled Newport voice dancing clear
of the dogged throat of the system:
‘Ken Jones scored the try; Brian Jones converted.’
Beyond that, nothing: we set off for London
so smoothly we don’t even move. There are light
refreshments available, the old days
are gliding west and throughout the train
there’s a policy of no smoking.
Page(s) 9
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