A sonnet for the Commonwealth Games – rugby sevens

by TanGental

Ibrox is a gladiatorial bowl,

all edges and bricks and hard flat lines;

No feminine touch to gladden the soul.

Sport is no joke; to laugh is a crime.

We’re here for the finals – Who’ll rise? Who’ll fall?

We sit, squeezed on plastic, arms tucked in,

Eyes front as each team sets out its stall.

Breathe held, throat hoarse – oh, what a din!

And all in the hope that the man with the ball

will run and jink and dive for a try,

his mates high five.

Opponents seem small,

knocked back by failure. They look to the sky

For some clue. And the gods merely retort:

‘Get over it. It’s the nature of sport.’

 

 

 

4 Comments to “A sonnet for the Commonwealth Games – rugby sevens”

  1. there’s no exhaustion like the tiredness following a rugby sevens match.

  2. I have never rugby as much as the seven’s, fast and short, with a quick change over to the next match.

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