A Quidditch Match

Solid blocks of gold and scarlet,

Fourteen players push off the ground.

A roaring crowd of fans,

The Quidditch pitch wide and round.

Two young boys of Gryffindor,

One red-headed and tall.

The second pale with emerald eyes,

The strongest and brightest of them all.

Soaring into the cloudy sky,

Rain lashes against the faces,

Of the seven, swift players.

Putting Slytherin through their paces.

The Quaffle arches across the stadium,

The hard ball collides with another.

The Bludger slams the ball off course,

The dark-green players swerve for cover.

The red-headed boy, Ron.

Scrambling to save the shot.

Cutting the air as he saved it,

On the new Cleansweep he'd got.

The jeers at every strike he missed.

The hits he took from the game.

But every time he rose stronger;

A bright and flickering flame.

A glint of gold catches a boy's green eye,

The tiny object darts away.

The dark-haired boy shoots after it,

But a Slytherin's face snaps the same way.

The two boys tilt down together,

The harsh wind whipping their skin.

Their fingers claw the air to grab it.

The blonde player's patience wearing thin.

He narrows his grey eyes slyly,

And slams his shoulder into Harry's.

He topples and hurtles to the compact ground,

Clutching the thin wand he carries.

But the slim boy on the other broom,

Exclaims puzzled and dismayed;

"Wha- What happened to the Snitch?"

As the players above continue to play.

Harry looks up; dazed.

Trying to ignore the hitch,

But with a sudden lurch of his stomach,

He spits out the tiny Snitch.

It's wings whirring silver,

The ball struggles against his hold.

The Gryffindors leap in a wave.

Their rival's stares icy cold.

Punching fists hit the air,

Heads turn down in shame.

The rain and cold forgotten,

Gryffindor had won the game.