POEM OF THE MONTH: SHEFFIELD SPIRIT BY CHRIS TOWERS
- 19/12/2023
![](https://sheffieldfc.com/storage/thumbnails/default/b8/gr/jfavl2os0cg8kw0cocwgo.jpg?p=%2FAdydpOlLIpCjmtMur2Ik9wOXEtpr84Ec7fQ4nRyp.jpg&s=images&widen=1024)
Sheffield Spirit by Chris Towers
December 2023
Sheffield, dashing in shirts and shorts of blue,
full of the spirit of Creswick and Prest,
ran like greyhounds unleashed upon grasses,
before gathering to form closed huddles
by the puddles, talking teams and tactics,
linking arms and puffing cheeks to the full,
before breaking from their round cluster to
fist pump the air, for Sheffield, all for one.
Families bunched with knees a knocking and
tuna fish sandwiches, sundaes, and smiles
as players bumped like dodgems in the sods
of grass, with bumps in lumpy, like porridge.
On a pitch sticky like treacle pudding,
with tricks, flicks and tippy tap skills, Sheffield
subdued the Reds as I smelt gravy, warm
on chippy top trays with sauce and sausage.
I saw smoke billowing from a tower,
the power station offloading fumes,
like a cigarette from a lone smoker,
as hungry hearted Sheffield harried proud
Forest, replete in their poppy red shirts,
on a Sunday of rain and remembrance.
Rain, swirling softly in Catherine wheels.
The sort that curtails camping holidays
on sodden moors in a late September.
Sheffield, chasing, charging, pounding as rain
pitter pattered on the steel of the stand,
sounding like the tip taps of a keyboard.
Sheffield lost, but headed with pride to the
pumpkin like orange glows of changing rooms,
with hot showers, towels, and physios and
ready-rub creams to comfort the tired limbs.