Someone moved the goalposts
while I was not looking
so my well- aimed kick at crossbar
drifted tamely into touch .
Fervent , red – faced referee
blew hard upon his whistle
and brought the game to a halt
though all those others kept on playing
scoring tries from their own pitch half .
Someone , somewhere did not tell me
of rules made up as you go along .
Before any hope of a new conversion
you have to slide across the line .
It does not matter how you reach it
through speed or stamina ,
fair means or foul
but if you fail you will be banished
to a lonely dressing – room corner
to polish other players boots
and untie knots from their laces .
Another season flashed by unnoticed ,
one Sunday all the trees were green
then the clocks changed over ,
and our frozen fingers
could no longer grip the ball .
Those footprints left on distant fields
where soon churned
into perpetual anonymity
as others came to wear our shorts and jerseys ,
formed their own scrums ,
rucked and mauled for possesion
just as we had done before .
Someone moved the goalposts ,
cast a false target at which to aim
watched the main pack
clamouring across pinnacles of success
while someone foundered
face down in a puddle
writhing in agony
from a long , deep wound
twenty – five metres from the goal – line
completely , unquestionably
out of touch .
© 2011, Allan. All rights reserved.
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