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Opening doors and scraping chairs And shaking of wooden cage, Coughing and clearing of tightening throat, And lifting lid, like page, To show inside this chunky book Of clicking exploding sheets, Numbers coloured on land of black, Which stand zig zag as pleats. Shuffling these noisy blocks To keep just seven apiece, As clacking crunch slows down to stop And all these sounds now cease, A precise search placed orderly Numbers six to none, And marker board with pegs so sharp, Is ready for the fun. No breaking of this silence Except for sliding tricks, And now and then in-drawn breath And drying tongue, that clicks When spots appear that should be dead, All chance of victory gone. Their picture neatly stored in head But not relied upon. |