The Lug

He is the final line on this field of war –
the wall,
the trench
and the battering ram.

He is scarred like landscapes after coal,
a misshapen mountain mass made pure
by purpose and a passion
made of the raw memories
of wins, losses and draws.

Here he is alive, only here his form finds full purpose
and movements are made true.
Here his lumbering run has no need for the frivolities of elegance or style
only the glorious absolutes of a catch or a miss.

The clock ticks down second by second
Time rendered mercifully slow-stretched like sinews
over the bones of battle.

Here the hurtling ball is read like a much loved book or the shrug of an old friend.
The poetry of its parabola divides the whole of space and time
into where the ball will be
and where it will not be.

It lands in one hand at full stretch
and there it is,
a cracked smile like a falling cliff revealing unweathered rock,
a triumphant glimpse into a savage youth spent between mud and sky.

He runs at them without fear as they rush him in a roaring multitude.
He gains speed and his savage smile widens as the gap narrows.