Little Voices

 

by Vin Maskell

 

We drank tea in the kitchen on the hill

Listening to the players wandering

Looking for their football in the fog.

The kettle boiled, the whistle blew

The steam from the cups

Caressed our faces.

Below in the white still darkness

The players kept calling:

Nicknames and coaches’ orders.

A foghorn marked the quarters.

 

Some nights bored

We flicked on the telly.

Pictures rolled over and over

Wave after wave.

On a clear night

We could make out jumpers

Stripes and sometimes numbers.

We could make out voices

Muffled words

Fading in and out

Bobbing up and down

Like buoys in the dark blue sea.

Little voices

Calling out across the strait.