Behind the gate

The smell of newly mown grass

Drifting on the warm summer evening breeze

It wasn’t much of a breeze

Barely moving the leaves on the tree’s

But enough to carry voices to my ears

Through the gate which creaked and groaned

For more than one hundred years the hinges of the gate

Had announced the arrival of friends and foe

Who bring with them their lust for victory

But only in the most civilised of manner

Uniforms to be worn, and flat soled shoes are a must

Someone to keep the score and an umpire you can trust

Step out onto the battlefield, of perfectly manicured grass

Tossing a coin, the winner drops the mat

Then battle begins as he swings his arm back

in his hand gripping the Jack

Then forwards again he loosens his grip, and the Jack is set free

It rolls a good distance, this won’t be easy

Now he reloads with a point scoring weapon

Bigger and biased allowing control of direction

It leaves his hand with practiced perfection

On target it’s close almost touching

Can his foe do better than that