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.
23 May 2011
Tuesday Poem: The Rapture In Reserve Grade
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3 comments:
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.
Very appropriate - and nicely done, too.
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.)
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