The Boxer's Final Fight


        Before each challenge, a silent wait,
        As a spot light dims on a roaring crowd,
        A beating heart is the boxer’s state
        Going through the ropes, exposed but proud
        
        The moment’s thoughts of years he trained
        With bag and ball and rope,
        Life does push a fighter’s soul
        To win the respect he’d hope
        
        And in a corner his name is called
        As gloves are laced and raised,
        A contender’s match in a familiar air
        Filled both by taunts and praise
        
        With each forward pace and testing jab
        He anticipates a block’s defense,
        Now on his own, he feels each punch
        With more, as more intense
        
        The pugilist’s mould is reinforced
        As courage coats an armoured knight,
        Wearing a gauntlet of leathered skin,
        The Boxer’s weapon for his fight
        
        For combat does the Boxer live
        As well outside the ring,
        His toughest challenge may not just be
        In the arena he is battling
        
        But never down is the Boxer’s aim
        No matter what he’d suffer,
        Enduring struggle, strife and agony
        As life grows intensely tougher
        
        He may feel the scores unfair
        As a judge is paid offside,
        But remember well that he fought with skill
        As “Honour” can never hide
        
        In the end, here lies the count,
        A referee by his right,
        The very last blow, was the KO
        That marked the fighter’s final fight
        
        Once a candle flame, now fumes a trail
        An upper flow, as a ghostly dance,
        It dissipates into the air
        As no foot, no longer will touch canvas
        
        But Hope’s not lost as Life was gained
        A gift from God we own,
        As acts and deeds of integrity
        Is all we take t’wards the next step unknown
        
        Once his gloves are hung beside his champion’s belt,
        The Boxer crosses the gym’s bare, planked floor,
        With a silent glance back, he shuts off the lights,
        Turns a-head while he closes this door
        

        By Silvia Pecota
        Dedicated to Patrick Connaughton
        22nd May 1944 - May 27th 2012 (5:45 pm Wales)