haiku bob: what’s left of the light

winter dusk…

the pleasant gloom

of a drawn game

the cold –

not enough

on the kick

blustery wind –

Leon switches on

and off

deep winter –

Fraser’s dropped mark

takes us deeper

bare stems –

our brittle lead grows

by a point

another behind

leaves me chuckling

in the chill air

deep in the last –

the game ebbs and flows

in and out of shadow

a kick to tie the game

in what’s left

of the light

winter sunset –

I hardly remember

The Sharpshooter