I watch her on the pitch, stoic and distant,
springing into wiry motion in just an instant.
The wire taut as she makes her way to the goal.
Her strength and beauty ignite my broken soul.
She has been forged on the anvil, bright steel.
Made the clay of birth into something so real.
The fire still burns and she is hammered to be stronger.
She is a heroine for making herself burn bright and longer.
Her light brown hair flowing behind her, a wisping veil,
as past every defender, every challenge, she does sail.
The sliding stop and the vicious kick, put into the net.
The look of fury and power as she cries victory, I won’t forget.