Twenty-two pairs of pink pubescent legs,
more blotchy than rancid meat
in a butcher’s shop window,
run in unison on a freezing field.
Panting girls stumble, slip and slither
over an acre of unkind mud,
while an icy north wind bites chunks
out of their flushed fusion of thighs,
which are topped with a frill of skirt
over a flash of darkest blue –
thick and coarse, baggy, fleece-lined,
voluminous and all covering,
causing catcalls and bawdy sniggers,
those hateful, hideous navy blue knickers.
(This poem was written as a result of the @52 prompt, sports week.)
