Help! I know nothing about football (but I’m Euro-curious)
Poet and artist Frieda Hughes found herself lured into viewing the last 10 minutes of the semi-finals, where she saw England beat the Netherlands
NOT OVER YET
The surgeon smiled, his khaki green Triumph motorbike
Stood in the hospital car park, his black helmet on a hook
Behind his desk, his Gore-Tex jacket, dripping wet and drying.
As he examined the six-week-old scars on my operated knee,
He told me motorbikes were possible as soon as I was able.
But, not yet stable enough to raise over quarter of a tonne
Of metal off the side stand, I’m frustrated at the limitation.
When my old Jag slipped into limp mode on my way back
– another engine failure since the last repair –
The RAC were so many online clicks away by phone
That my day was going to disappear into the dog hole
Of the layby in which I waited. Before pressing “send”
I tried the ignition again, and wishful thinking got me home,
Where, in the stillness of a Wednesday evening,
Despite no football pedigree, my Euro-curiosity
And the smell of the semi-final that hung in the air
From Dortmund, Germany, had me watching TV
For the last ten minutes of the game and an England win.
Sometimes the world does not open doors,
You have to kick them in, but only with your good leg.