For the All Blacks, On the Eve of the World Cup

(with apologies to Rudyard Kipling)

If you can catch the ball when all about you
Are dropping it and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when the public doubts you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can win after all the waiting
(Ignore the doomsayers, just deal in tries)
And, though some hate Poms, don’t deal in hating
Just play your best (and hope Hanson’s wise);

If you can think - how to run that bit faster
If you can dream - and make that Cup your aim;
If you can secure triumph, avert disaster
And always play an honest game;
If you can force heart and nerve and sinew,
Scoring tries long after they are gone
And so play on when there is nothing for you
Except the Crowd which roars “Come on!”;

If you can please the crowd and keep your virtue
Or dine with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither ‘Boks nor Wallabies can beat you,
If all fans count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of kicking done -
Then yours is the Cup and New Zealand with it,
And - which is All - you’ll be a ‘Black, my son!

She came laughing

She came laughing in the morning’s glow,
Her voice was singing clear.
Dancing she came, and remaining here
She taught me joy to know.
Her eyes as tender as morning dew,
With lightest step she flew –
Stepping graceful as the dawning’s mist,
Slender form sunlight kissed.

Firmly braced in the noonday sun
She passed her strength to me;
In open desert, wildly free
I realised how to run.
Her leaping eyes revealed passion’s fire,
The fight would never tire.
Rippling hair streamed tempest tossed,
Chiming voice ever soft.

In the evening’s calm she lingered still
With sweetness in her smiles.
Following close through the miles
I mounted Patience Hill.
Then moved she on to a wider sphere;
She went, and left me here.
And now I alone must run the race
Without her winning grace.

England

    
Tiny little island, nestled among the foam,
    Ancient land and honoured, whom millions call their home.
Land of gentle lowland, rising to withered height,
    Gentle, sleepy island, yet full of hidden might.

Venerable oaks rise tall and strong,
    The rivers laugh their gurgling song.
Soft winds blow from their lofty seat,
    Lanes of centuries carry hurrying feet.

Up to the sky the rugged hills soar,
    Across lonely moorlands the harsh winds roar.
Breezes play with the grass of the lea,
    The rain sweeps in o’er the sea.

Over leaning gravestones old trees keep watch,
    Gnarled old trunks with many a notch.
Sunshine dapples children’s play,
    The sparkling waters dance in the bay.

Mother land, for whom thousands fought and died,
    How did you inspire such heroic pride?
To you, down the ages, men have stayed true,
    Tiny little island from which an empire grew.

(As seen in This England magazine, Spring 2010!)