Dreadnought

 

We crossed the Chantry Bridge

As the Calder boiled beneath

And a drifting, chilling mist

Hung heavy on the heath

We came from far and wide

Marching all together

To gather at Belle Vue

Despite the dank, inclement weather

 

There were grandfathers and fathers

There were mothers, daughters, sons

Hand in hand in heavy coats

As the frost caressed our lungs

And our breath came billowing out

Into the winter air

where the red, white and blue

was being displayed everywhere

 

There were feet stomping the terracing

To ward away the frost

Where only last weekend

Our brave lads narrowly lost

But that’s all put behind us now

we live in new-found hope

That comes back to us each Saturday

With so little time to mope

 

The air is filled by strange aromas

Of Wintergreen and beer

with Bovril slurped from silver flasks

as kick off time grows near

the crowd noise becomes louder

and then turns into a roar

as the teams enter the field of play

and thus commences war

 

Eighty minutes later

And they leave bruised and bloodied

With the pristine kit ripped and torn

And everything sludged and muddied

And we’ve shouted so damned hard

That none of us can speak

But we’ve beaten local rivals

And will have bragging rights all week

 

This is winter rugby league

A game now sadly lost

To the TV companies and money

And no one counts the cost

Of the loss to our heritage

In local brief forays

On a northern field in winter

On ice cold Saturdays