Watching the Olympics was never my intention
With household chores beseeching attention,
My firmly asserted lack of interest in sport
Undermined by a curious sense of import,
This once-in-four-years multinational occasion
Weaving its spell in my imagination
With feats of grace as much as endeavour,
All of it big and all of it clever!
Remembering days past when the Russians were king
In just about every bloomin’ thing,
Their tiny young gymnasts as bendy as wire
With skilful routines designed to inspire.
Politically, now eclipsed from grace
In spite of historically winning first place.
Striving to scratch that competitive itch,
By levelling the playing field, not queering the pitch.
The trials and the triumphs,
The solos, the teams,
Every competitor’s childhood dream:
A level of commitment to positively inspire,
Raising the bar that little bit higher.
As a child I watched, just captivated,
Not that it ever really motivated-
Coordination not my gift,
The consequence a growing rift
Between me and the world of sport,
Retrieving as a last resort
Co-opted commitment to Foot-Ball.
And walking. But otherwise nothing at all.
Unless the step-clap of gospel choir
Might set a trend bound to inspire…
I’ve no idea of distances done
As Saints and singers go marchin’ on
But body and soul are exercised
With no incentivising prize,
Except the sound that fills the air,
The sense of praise in which we share
Working as a team to keep in time
To that final crescendo-