Boris

Charge, CHARGE! I am in the rugby game
of my life.
Do not think of not winning,
this fixture is a “must”.
I hug the ball to my chest;
it is valuable beyond pearls and rubies.

CHARGE! There is no-one to pass to.
The loose scrum has tightened, tightened,
they are clawing, blocking, all sorts of shenanigans.
I shall not give it up.

In the eye of the storm
it is all there, as if it could go in a second,
the dalliance, the dance with the Fates,
the drift and the dare and the dazzle,
the path down a petal-strewn journey.
I see it, admit it, and I blow it away

the impenitent hoohah of my being

Take it all as seriously as you like, my friends,
the fact is, the hard grit, that takes the skin off the face
is the surface I embrace. Up again, a few feet more . . .

this fixture is a one-off.
The rules as we know them are suspended.
In the onslaught and counter-onslaught of new rules,
new ploys, new bondings . . . and almost it seems
in the struggles of a new birth as to who we are and what we are
my friends, there’s a prize worth the playing for
on our treasured ground.
I shall not give it up,
the trust that is placed in me.
Bear with me. A score’s on the cards –
a result to work wonders.

*
I shall move heaven and earth
to get the ball over the line.