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.’