Grand final

This is the sacred day,

when most will stop

to view and see afresh

the grand event,

the culmination of

the epic and torrid battles

that mark and grace

the football year.


This is the day of rituals,

when devotees to the G

shall go robed and ready

to see their team

and to celebrate with

their tribe,

or perhaps just

to soak in the spectacle

that is the last

and final game.


The day is more than

just the season’s end,

for across the city,

and inter-state,

the colours fly,

and the week before

is filled with speculation

and commentary,

inscrutable Brownlow counting,

parades and excited dreams

of what might be if

they (their team) would only win.


And at the bounce,

the banners raise

and the crowd swells,

filled with the aura

of this lavish festival;

and the cheers resound

and echo across

the hallowed turf of this

place of reverence,

the cathedral of worship


at the home we call

the MCG.


Then, as the siren

calls all to watch and pray

and wonder at what will be

and who will stand

and who will fall,

breaths are held

in rooms and bars,

and outdoor BBQs,

across this land,

and even beyond.


For this sacred game,

the religion of this new land,

of once a year is on again,

is on for all to watch

and be made part of

its unifying theme.


This theme is that

all can come

and partake in this

shared and urgent love,

and all of every race

and every kindred

shall be one tribe,

as we lift our gaze

and raise our hands

to the greatest game

in this our wonderland.