Full grown folk in shorts on field, 

      With battle cries all brawl

And, with fortitude and human strength,

     Advance an oval ball.

 

With ball in hand away they speed

     With others in pursuit.

What now is done, what moves are made,

      Affects a good repute.

 

The opponent’s try-line is in sight,

     But, tackled from the back:

My goodness, are all hopes now dashed

     By those set on attack?

 

The ball’s now gone the other way:

     But, in this headlong race,

The opponents’ have their sights on ball:

      They’re wild beasts in a chase.

 

The player’s being tackled now -

     Oh, look, they’re in a ruck!

Between the two opposing teams

     That oval ball seems stuck.

 

This chaotic-looking, shoving match,

      Designed to free the ball,

Appears to unenlightened folk,

     A playground free-for-all.

 

But, no no no - I’m wrong again,

     It’s crucial to the game

And scrums or line-outs, I am told,

     Are important just the same.

 

A whistle’s blown, the game is done,

    It’s time to count the points

And, after all this strenuous sport,

     To ease those aching joints.

 

This sport’s not for fainthearted folk

     Who fear a cut or bruise,                              

But for audacious, active types,

     This is the sport you’ll choose.

​

Copyright on all my poems