Donald Atkinson
A defensive error - for a son, rising twenty-nine
Your birthday slipped my tackle yet again.
Each year, as the game warms up, I spot
The attack forming. Deep in his own half
Time gets the ball out to the wing. As usual,
I have the man covered. Easy, I tell
Myself. Don’t try to take him too soon.
Meanwhile your day comes on. My interception
Sliced by a quick scissors, I black out,
And come to in the changing-room, a day
And a year, late.
Once, when we were young,
I promised you doves. ‘We’ll keep a hundred doves!’
Nothing came of it. But today I saw -
Was it twenty-nine of them? - fly up, shuffle
The packed air white, tumble like unconverted tries.
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