2 MAY 1987, Page 28

Touchline

Training at night, my son sinks, floats On a sea of boys. Their ball arcs, A comet losing heart; floodlights Droop like sunflowers over their box Of silver. Small, anonymous And scarfed, I take my bearings from The confident stars, the wild morse Written in the dark, note each frame In the film of a passing train Is empty or holds a stranger's Profile. Yet my lad makes a run Through three tackles and the fence jars Into my back, feeling me move. I hear some Eden as I fold Joints down the universal glove, A shout across a frosty field.

Ian Caws