Alive
Silence. Breath slides in,
is held, as his eyes
narrow focus. Next to
him, his opponent hits and pulls.
Green tufts go up as
the sphere begins to slice through
the distance dividing them.
Sphere. Opponent. Silence. The moment.
One last breath as he pushes
off with his right arm and coils
himself, driving himself down and
then up, higher, twisting, contorting.
The sun plays across the spinning ball,
twirling slowly toward him.
At last, he unwinds fully,
snapping his head sharply left.
The back of the net billows, ripples, its
treasure cradling. Tumult erupts.
A roar rings deafening 'round him.
His teammates tumble, his tears flow.
Thanks for reading! This is another of my attempts at alliterative poetry in the Old English style, as I outlined here. Thanks again to @geekorner for looking it over and offering advice, and for continually pushing me to make it better. :)
line breaks here are great, @whoshim, they drive the reader forward with the forward driving the ball forward!
it's a climactic moment, one any footballer has had dreams and dreams about as a kid - great capture!
Thanks for the kind words. :)
It's sort of funny, to have a piece of poetry in this style about football. But then, isn't it part of our lives? Hadn't there been multiple wars fought over football? Is it not called "The Beautiful Game"?
So.