AN injury break in a rugby match is the unlikely subject for this poem from an engagingly disparate collection of poems and translations (of the Greek poet Cavafy) by Alasdair Gordon.

The paperback, complete with illustrations by a variety of hands, is called Eight Seasons (Meltemi Book, £9.50).

PLAY TO THE WHISTLE

The others, frankly grateful for the break, wait

in a variety of postures; stretching,

eyes closed, mouths open. A blue bottle is passed

with a spout for squirting. Near the injury

are gathered opponents seemingly concerned,

colleagues thinking what to do if he goes off.

Two front-row forwards in low voices exchange

a joke about something they got away with,

hands on knees, their red-faced bulks steaming like stirks

in the rain, at once childish and terrible.

One fellow, a three-quarter, has his head back

in an attitude of deep concentration

as though his problem was mathematical.

From time to time they look across at the coach

for any hints on how to win and red-eyed,

breathing slower now, search the crowd for talent.