Collision

The shoulder was numb and the breath rasped

from the bruised chest under a torn jersey.

The shrill whistle of the man in black and white

set off a barrage of the flesh and muscle hurdling at the try.

Bound fast side by side at the waist by worn and bloody fingers

gripping tight, shoulder to shoulder the defenders stood in line

stalwart against the impending collision.

A train bound for a brick wall gaining speed over the distance,

as each buttressed the line with cleats planted in the slippery mud,

the raging mass of howling attackers crashed into the line.

Stoic defenders stood and stalled the adversaries

leaving the scrum to push and maul against the very earth

with exhausted legs. The mud was churned and bodies fell covered.

The line did not move and no try was made.

Again the whistle, again the teams picked each other from the pile

taking their place for another battle.

It began to rain.

By Rick Marriner

1997