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Heart of Midlothian 1, Intonation 1
Bakelite wirelesses, their enigmatic glow
from dreamy stations: Riga, Hilversum.

Football results at five on Saturdays at home.
The dads hunched over, filling in the pools.
Each rise and fall of the announcer’s tone
meant wins, or equalisers, or defeats
its RP weighty, self-assured and calm,
avuncular with its velvety inflections
the fates of Stenhousemuir, Dunfermline
clear-cut the very instant they were named.

‘Wolverhampton Wanderers nil, Burnley 2’ –
a lucky team’s score leapt, as if surprised.

‘Tottenham Hotspur 1, Everton 1’ –
an even note of satisfaction meant a draw.

‘Arbroath 3, Dumbarton 2’ –
the loser’s name crestfallen, read aloud.

Raith Rovers, heard as ghostly ‘Wraith’
(that’s Wraith with a ‘W’)
weaving and flitting in the straining air,
an upbeat lilt – until some poignant pause
showed emphasis shapes meaning by itself
that destiny’s foreshadowed in a pitch
as well as played out on it. Stolid, grave,
the radio taught that cadence could be tender.
That dip of the announcer’s voice foretold
how Stranraer fell to Stirling Albion
or Partick Thistle skidded on its knees.

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