Backhold on the Fell

Two wrestlers meet upon the grassy ground,

Their arms entwined in ancient, binding hold,

No trick of malice here, but skill profound,

A heritage through centuries retold.

The crowd leans close, their breath a gentle cheer,

As hips are set and balance shifts with care,

Each measured step draws contest ever near,

Till sudden throw suspends them in the air.

The thud of turf receives the falling frame,

One victor rises, modest in his pride,

For rules demand respect beyond the game,

Tradition is the truest guide.

So strength and honor twine, as fells look on,

Old England’s sport still wrestles with the dawn.