I bet…

I bet that as a child I climbed up many trees
Sometimes in tears running home with cut knees
I’d have played with Dinky toys and Hornby trains
And jumped into puddles after pouring rains.

I bet that as a youth I was petulant and daft
And sailed down a river on a home-made raft
I’d have ridden on my bike for miles and miles
Watching all the steam trains at railway styles.

And on a rugby pitch I’d have felt right in place
Charging down the wing or lying on my face
To clubs I’d have gone for the rhythm and the blues
We’d dance through the night like we’d nothing to lose.

I bet I met a lady who would love me forever
Who’d nurture our children and make us seem clever
She’d always keep me warm on the coldest nights
And be by my side when I get these frights.

I bet these things I’ve written may have all taken place
But the end-game approaches at an ever-quicker pace
I see it is the sort of life someone like me would need
But the memories have faded like an old dried up seed.


©Joe Wilson – I bet…2015

The Jules Rimet


So now the thing is over
all the pundits have gone back home
and the Rimet Trophy has been put away
to be played for again another day
some managers will now lose their teams
for not fulfilling a nation’s dreams.

But it is football, just a game
men paid so much, disgraceful shame
while others struggle to put food on the table
players cavorted like Betty Grable
but we watched it still – we cannot stop
I wonder when the penny will drop.

I remember pictures in black and white
when games were played in failing light
where players had jobs to earn their pay
and played the game on Saturday
where then the ref’s decision was law
and players didn’t roll round on the floor.

Those days are gone and that’s for sure
the balls were heavy and kit was poor
but player’s hearts were in the game
and not the glory of fleeting fame
when celebrity wasn’t theme of the day
for men oft found to have ‘feet of clay’.

©Joe Wilson – The Jules Rimet 2014

I can still remember Franz Beckenbauer playing on after breaking his arm, simply by wearing a  black sling to support it…a sight you wouldn’t see today.

The Arrow


Pulled back to the fullest stretch
The string now as hard as steel
The arrow ready astride the bow
And your senses stop as you feel.

Muscles tighten at tension break
A little sweat leaves the pores
Then just at the moment the brain says yes
You release – and the target is yours.

Flying through the air as straight as a die
Where gravity takes a pull on it too
But it lands in the gold as you knew that it would
For your aim and the arrow were true.

©Joe Wilson – The Arrow 2014

Six Nations

Looking out across the field
At teams of men none whom would yield
Ready to battle against a side
Honour needing to be satisfied.

Men stood in centre, others at flanks
Some so huge they resembled tanks
The anthems sung, the talking done
A hard match now that could be won.

A roar goes up, the game begins
Arms and legs and knees and chins
All will be used in this affray
One side will win on this vital day.

The rain held off, there was no mud
On verdant grass these hard men stood
And then the egg-shaped pill flew high
Wingers to catch and go for tries.

Heroes were made upon that day
Of men who’d fight another day
Amidst loud cheers and celebrations
Battle Royal between Six Nations.