sports
The silence hardens on a face,
Dogged discipline firms the leaning pose,
Drawing full-length now the cue as bow,
Tuning out pressures of a bipartite race.
Unfolding in a frantic dance,
The drama of a game outplayed,
It's dives and falls and swift ascension,
Barely with the plan though quite delayed,
In all the beads of sweat:
The form of slowly progress rears a head.
A content smile as icing on the cake,
A victory dug out for their sake,
Dripping now and beaming through,
The trophy won for many by a few.
Spectating sports - the kind that fascinate,
That hold onto attention firmer than their summing parts,
For they are more a dance than game,
A furied striving after tempered mastery,
A chase to heights and speeds that flirt upon the edge of human might.
Roaring lions valiant in a row,
Caught up in ritual combat on the green,
To fight from down behind and low,
Bellows puffing in a heated row,
They take a toll of time till every drop,
Of sweat beads down their rivals brow,
Which pleads the stifled foe to stop.
For the game is lost and won.
There's still sand in my face,
Still dust crusts in my eyes,
It flickers to starlight on the sea,
What gorgeous geometry.
Framed pebbles in their flowing waves,
Like gemstones in bezels embed-
ded in my feet until they're red,
Next pebbles turn to pat my back,
A friend of rocks -
False friends with rocks,
Convent how they end up there,
At least I hear their laughter all the same.
Poemise the day,
In parcels packaged with pensive thought,
Partial rhymes I posed and sought,
Then I plucked without delay,
Full rhymes and riches from the air,
Plumes and dust from a slow care,
To nurse a slowly day,
At once it quickened,
The cold air thickened,
All is hot and frantic on the way,
A chattered greeting into tussles,
Softballs landing squarely by the hustles,
Always good - great fun to play.
Pool mad,
And the water pitter-patters,
Echoes from the cannon ball with a spatter,
Diving frenzy between my cousins,
Diving before second cousins,
And some siblings are chilling behind,
Switch!
Ball mad,
And a lunge splish-splashes,
Sinking beneath a tapped ball with a passion,
Switch!
Rocket mad,
And we're chucking coloured missiles into the deep,
At each other, and we race to the bottom.
Hood up in the rain,
Seasoned first with mist,
Then drenched again with longer drips,
And I'm stepping to and fro on glistening grass,
And trying not to skid too fast,
But planting feet and firming arms,
To hit the ball to my own tune,
I pass it in the pouring rain.