The wood of the broom handle under my thumb,
The cold so bitter my fingers go numb,
Flying high and facing my fears,
The roar of the crowd in my ears.
Red and gold blurs down the pitch.
The momentary glint of the Golden Snitch.
My three goal posts standing high.
I hear the wind whistling by.
The Quaffle coming towards me,
I block the attack with ferocity,
I send it back with no remorse -
Quidditch is my driving force.
It's what I do; it's why I live,
For the exhilaration it can give.



There you go! I hope it was enjoyable.