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.