The idiot boy in the outfield
gallops, eye on the ball.
Eye on the fly-half's leap,
he leaps too. When the full-back
flings his length in the mud
he too, on the tussocky verges,
acts out despair. He dodges,
weaves, feints, follows
the action in slow motion,
pounds the length of the field
and goes home unbruised, unmuddied.
When all the players are bedded
and snoring like trombones, he, wakeful, watches
an elliptical moon eluding him in the sky.