23 May 2011

Tuesday Poem: The Rapture In Reserve Grade

Fifth tackle, and they’re kicking
when the last trump sounds.
The chosen players rise
but fail to catch the ball
as it spirals sinfully to ground.

It’s six a side in heaven,
seven left behind. No tackler,
no first marker. The halfback,
that cocky little rooster,
grabs the ball and scoots away.

No fullback, either. He's
showing a clean pair of heels
diving beneath the crossbar
and taking the conversion
as the first drops of blood touch the crowd.

Tim says: In the wake of last weekend's seemingly erroneous prophecy, I thought it was time to post this poem, which appeared in my first collection, Boat People. In case the number of players involved puzzles you, I should point out that the game in question is rugby league (13 a side).

You can read all the Tuesday Poems on the Tuesday Poem blog - the featured poem is on the centre of the page, and the week's other poems are linked from the right-hand column.


Piokiwi said...

Ahh! I should have thought of you when brainstorming for rugby experts!
Even though I don't understand the complexities of the game, I enjoyed the intent of the poem - very clever, and more than a little dark.

Catherine said...

Very appropriate - and nicely done, too.

Tim Jones said...

Thanks, Renee and Catherine.

Aw gee, Renee, I wouldn't call meself a footy expert, exactly, but when the fifth tackle comes and the fullback's caught out of position, you're sure to find me stabbing a little grubber kick through the defensive line.

(NB: I may not actually know what any of this means.)