Sunday, November 20, 2011

Paper Planes

The crowd’s collective roar
made the paper planes soar,
some crashing into the stand,
others reaching the pitch
and landing smoothly, which
elicited a big hand.
How they circled and soared,
our long-held dreams on board
before coming in to land!

Defying all the odds,
we sit up with the gods
and sing loud that old refrain
of Olé, Olé, Olés,
pre-empting summer days
in Poland or the Ukraine.
The Irish spirit sings,
borne on the fragile wings
of each tiny paper plane.

In Estonia

Estonia – the name fills us with dread
and makes the path ahead stonier.
We leave, armed with scarf, voice, hope and rattle
to do battle in Estonia.

The chill of winter grips the barren land
and throttles the fair begonia.
Will we too wilt on the frozen mire
or light a fire in Estonia?

Bony is the wolf, cloudy his thick breath
but death’s long fingers are bonier.
We must not flinch but grasp the flaming bough
that beckons now in Estonia.

How pleasant now seem the far-flung mountains
and fountains of Patagonia!
Easier to scale them all than begin
to hope to win in Estonia.

Timid and caution, get thee hence to bed –
faint heart is wed to pneumonia.
Our battle cry must make the pale moon glow
and strike a blow in Estonia.

FIFA’s sympathy last time was phony
but our baloney was phonier.
Let us hope that this time we’ll get it right
this Friday night in Estonia.

Written as part of an exercise at to write a poem using the archaic Welsh form, the toddaid.