(25th March 1943 / )

A Toxophilite

The target ranged at 100 yards,
The bow, strung ready to yield,
The power entrusted in its pull,
Sends the arrows down the field.

Each one with red coloured feathers,
Each alloy shaft balanced for speed,
The string is drawn, then with tension held,
It shall surely the 'bulls eye' feed.

Like a bullet sprung from a barrel,
The arrow flies out of sight,
And then a 'thud' as it hits the butt,
It's a game that can't help but excite.

A steady stance, and strong muscled arms,
Are needed to perfect the aim,
With a quiver and bow sight, you can become,
Archer, Toxophilite, Bowman, the same.

A very ancient skill, this was, way back,
Battles fought, by brave stalwart men,
The bow and the arrows, were weapons of war,
One would not have liked, living then.

But these days it's a great sport to tackle,
Achievement is always one's claim,
And a score in the 'Centre' is well worth the wait,
Archery is a wonderful game.

© Ernestine Northover

User Rating: 4,8 / 5 ( 31 votes ) 10

Comments (10)

Couldn't resist peeking at this one to find out what a toxophilite was! Now I know. A lovely read, Ernestine, and glad I came. Love, Fran xxx
A well-crafted poem, Ernestine, on a fascinating subject. This brings back memories from high school; how I wish we'd devoted more time to the sport! Thank you for a wonderful write! Esther : ]
This one hits the target well written clever read.
My husband was a bowman. He was an avid hunter but felt the animals needed a chance against the hunter, even the score so to say. He always hunted with a bow on the ground and delighted in the chase in trying to bring down his moving target. Excellent work. Brings back nice memories. Rita
Dear Ernestine This discription paints some lovely colours in the mind. Very clear and dare I say it.....To the point I loved the subject as I have a passion for the bow, not the arrows so much mainly just the bow.
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