Six Touches Before the Line

They break from the huddle into open field,

Breath already pacing the rhythm of the touch.

A quick lateral opens sudden space,

The sideline shouting maps of unseen time.

Six chances only to earn the painted line,

Or else surrender the ball to the waiting side.

The winger ghosts along the narrow side,

Studying seams in the defensive field.

A fingertip grazes cloth before the line—

Reset. The referee counts the touch.

The clock does not forgive a wasted time,

Nor does a shrinking pocket of space.

A dummy pass invents a corridor of space,

Teammates looping wide to stretch the side.

Five now. The pressure folds the seconds of time.

The ball arcs shallow across the field,

Snatched mid-stride before another touch

Drives them backward from the stubborn line.

Four. A stutter step fractures the line,

For half a heartbeat there is daylight, space—

But hands arrive, a whispering touch.

Reset again; defenders crowd the side,

Closing angles, shrinking the field,

Each breath a measurement of time.

Three. Sweat beads like borrowed time.

The try zone gleams beyond the line,

A promise stretched across the grassed field.

The halfback darts through thinning space,

Draws two markers from the blind side,

Flings the ball before the tagging touch.

Two. One. The final feint evades the touch,

A sidestep stealing seconds from time.

Support arrives from the open side,

Diving low and long toward the line,

Carving one last ribbon of space

Across the width of the living field.

In this small republic of field and time,

Where every touch redraws the line of space,

Victory lives on the thinnest side of the line.