Snooker Poem by Phil Soar

They use the Green baize, like a manicured lawn,
They train on its surface from midnight to dawn,
Using angles and corners with extraordinary skill,
Placing balls in the pockets, it seems, at their will.



The colours flash by in a myriad of streams,
Whilst the players try to capture the trophy of dreams,
With the ‘Rest' or the ‘Spider' to help with their break,
No room for small errors, no place for mistakes.



Each frame an adventure of consummate skill,
Lining the balls up, whilst they are quite still,
And stroking them home to amass the best score,
To better the break that they'd potted before.



Some players may wait for a place at the table,
No reflection of status, or that they're not able,
Perhaps their opponent has plotted his time,
And has potted the balls in a way that's sublime.



At the end of the game, there's a feeling of joy,
That he's had the ability to plan and destroy,
To visit the baize, and perform to his best,
And then lift the trophy above his proud chest.