The Match

This is a poem that many of you may not "get" it is about rugby league, a sport confined to the North of England (specifically Lancashire and Yorkshire) It is a physical game, in the past played and enjoyed by the working class. Cold, cold, Sunday afternoon,under dark autumnal skies. Winter greened warriors ready for battle, waiting with fire in their eyes. Shrill whistle sounds, ball punts aloft, Fans ebb and flow like the tide, terraces heaving, eyes keenly watch, combatants with nowhere to hide. Ball is caught, in graceful flight, followed by thunderous crash! Opposing teams fight, for every yard, In this brutal, gladiatorial clash. Legs like pistons drive and thrust, stopped by shoulders of steel The ball is passed and caught once more, as the runners twist and reel. The line is kept as progress is made, four tackles, and then to five, Frantically the ball is tossed around, to keep their onslaught alive. Once more the kick, to gain the ground, now attackers turn to hold, An enemy player gathers the ball, the charge is brave and bold. Once more the clash, as the war wages on, limbs now tire and ache, blood and sweat and tears are shed, Until truce is called for the break. The crowd abates, for short respite, they huddle from rain’s bitter sting, Warm Bovril burns debating lips, as opinions on play, shout and sing. Then back to the fray, peace shattered once more, crunching and straining and breaking, The players collide as the score board rotates, recording the points that they’re taking. The last minute passes, the battle is won, arms raised, hoarse throats scream elated The tumult subsides as the crowd drifts away Losing team players berated. The stadium lights grow dim in the night As the last strand of day slips from view And the battle now passed, is a memory saved Next week there’ll be memories new. «Last Edit:Yesterdayat 9:53 PM by MT66»