A Toxophilite - Poem by Ernestine Northover
The target ranged at 100 yards,
The bow, strung ready to yield,
The power entrusted in its pull,
Sends the arrows down the field.
Each one with red coloured feathers,
Each alloy shaft balanced for speed,
The string is drawn, then with tension held,
It shall surely the 'bulls eye' feed.
Like a bullet sprung from a barrel,
The arrow flies out of sight,
And then a 'thud' as it hits the butt,
It's a game that can't help but excite.
A steady stance, and strong muscled arms,
Are needed to perfect the aim,
With a quiver and bow sight, you can become,
Archer, Toxophilite, Bowman, the same.
A very ancient skill, this was, way back,
Battles fought, by brave stalwart men,
The bow and the arrows, were weapons of war,
One would not have liked, living then.
But these days it's a great sport to tackle,
Achievement is always one's claim,
And a score in the 'Centre' is well worth the wait,
Archery is a wonderful game.
© Ernestine Northover
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