Poem of the week by David Nash

Something like the title of a poem
that rivals in itself the poem’s length, I want them
to keep going, take heart in their parity,
and draw forever. It’s unbearable, all this hope,
yet 30-something men must bear it
and play more. Sport makes extra time
in that event, in a crack at infinity.
there are Hail Marys, yes. And there are matrices
with fewer permutations, although it’s also simple:
at each whistle, start again, make more decisions.
It means you’re strong if you hold out
and hold your ground, but we don’t go
for hero-worship – a muttered Dhera, milk
would turn faster than Eoin O’Driscoll gets a laugh, since
at this stage of the game, that’s all you can do.

Today’s poem is from David Nash’s debut collection, No Man’s Land (Dedalus Press)