Here it is, as requested.

THE ROUT OF SHEFFIELD WEDNESDAY

That contest bore the seal of Adam’s craft
affirming gifts no mere coach could mentor.
Now few refuse his right to mythology
save the Manic Miscreant of the Millhouse Terrace,
who tirelessly offloads oaths at home matches.

All day rain fell remorselessly,
until by grim evening the ground glistened
under its elemental downpouring, the soil
thirstily drinking diagonal slants of water
whose surplus sparkled like starglow
on each blade of grass. We arrived early,
pushing puddles from our seats
with inadequate palms, drying damp brows and lashes,
watching the floodlights transform weather.
Above the stands was swirling inchoate darkness,
precipitation in primeval state. Below the lights
it came right rain, beating hypnotically,
conjuring our consciousness
to a state of near trance, spelling us to forget
the wealth of Wednesday and their rich pickings.

The teams ran out, transformed instantly
by the swift saturating baptism of night.
None escaped drenching and at once
their clothes and hair clung close as skin.
Men slipped and slithered in the mad mud
and each blind kick released a kaleidoscope
of droplets arcing through the air.
Wednesday were woebegone; we always had suspected
their soft southern ways,
whose rhythm might go awry in adversity;
but never even then did we predict
the primitive unleashing of forces
to be caused by the day’s flooding.

A gradual rapt gazing gathered on the crowd,
a collective sense that from the anarchy
a subtle apparition formed, its appearances
and disappearances linking like ley lines,
always at the perfect time and place
no Sheffield shin could reach. Vacuums and vortices
whirled round this misty, semi-human form,
that, effortless, invoked long dormant Druid spells,
conducting the crowd’s concerted gasps and hopes
and eerie expectant silences until at last a perfect triangle
of goals bowed in our name. And in the sudden clarity,
Adam. Casual, as if he’d had no hand in it.

Roofs reverberated with rapturous gratitude
and strong men wiped surreptitious tears.
The delirious home crowd in its compassion
forgot to goad Wed’s glum and hapless goalie,
and even the redundant ref was spared the usual
synonymous allusions to his maternal ancestry.
Visiting supporters stood with us to cheer
and many afterwards mailed messages,
half lost for words as we were,
to mention that monsoon night when Adam Boyd
had the hat trick with the hallmark of legends.

it doesnt rhyme

thanks Grabec.
Its a top poem and not the most usual or easy of subjects
That brings the night back to me.
Some excellent images.
I love the line
Adam. Casual. As if he'd had no hand in it.

Thank you.