Tuesday night

On this ferric-blue Tuesday night, moon-bright floodlights

throw triangles of porous white on mist-steeped pitches.

These lunar-beams attract miniature rugby players:

tiger-moth forwards lug bodies too big for their limbs;

clothes-moth backs move in flittering sprints, looking like

they, too, might fritter into silver dust if pressed

against a window pane.  Solid forwards and brittle backs gather

to a pack around the coach, whose florescent shoulders and bobble hat nod

above the boys as they jog around the pitch.  Their breaths meld

into the foggy still air, leaving puffs of life

above the low indolent waft from the river; vapour drops gather

to form undulating drifts, white auroras streaking

a sky of vague haze on the cool breath of the evening.

‘Keep together boys.’