PS Cottier

It's moving, just ahead
of the players' most clever feet.
Every four years, we fill a cup,
then pour it out, a month of dreams.
Was it just last week that Bergkamp
flicked with orange elegance,
side-footing space and time?
No, he is long gone now, 
off fielding sixty years.
Others follow.  Messy time
melts beauty, remoulds it, 
casts it always anew.
It never ages, constantly fired,
as we fade, we watchers,
yesterday's players, passing.
Twenty sips at the cup
will fill a lifetime;
held safe in keeper's hands.

PS Cottier

Photograph: Herbert Nott, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

I tend to trot this poem out when the World Cup is on, whether women's or men's.   I've had to update Bergkamp's age a few times, but the pun on Messy still stands! The photograph is of Dutch soldiers playing football in Ontario, Canada (the date given is circa 1940-1949).