Rugby

On Green Pastures

In the dawn‑lit green of the empire’s game,
A clash begins where the ball is the claim.
The packing of the scrum, a tightening knot,
Masses of strength, a line‑out’s faint, brave thought.

The whistle, a bell, sends the try‑takers on,
Fast‑moving sprints past any defiant spawn.
The back‑line weaves, the fly‑half engineers,
Crafting a play that undoes all herres.

Tacklers dive, the ruck gleams under boots,
Pulled together through bruising, swift duets.
Maul, the forward chant that binds the chain,
Each shoulder, each elbow, wills unchained.

The crowd roars in swells that echo the lore,
From Belfast’s highlands to the urban roar.
It’s not just the ball that’s won or lost,
But the spirit of will that from every soul is tossed.

So here is the rugby, a craft of heart and hand—
A brushed‑up drama across emerald land.
With every try, a history begins, remains,
In the heart of the nation’s unbroken grain.