Shades of magpies rising
Tyne, from banks of Tyne,
From boneyards about churches,
Ancient and modern.
Match day! Mingling with hordes
Of the living
Who only see the world in black ‘n’ white,
Old and young.
“It’s our religion!”
Faith of the damned, the dreamed,
The dinned from birth;
Second hand and new.
Only, the game’s no longer played on turf,
But across spreadsheets.
Sport is a question of balance,
Profit and loss.
And there no fans any more,
Just customers, consumers, clients,
Footfall through the turnstiles,
Win or lose.
Come final whistle the dead return
To their plots and scatterings,
The living live for extra time:
Life and death.