a gentle game. The green of grass,
a sunny day, men dressed in white
stand scattered on the field of play.
The rise and fall of bowler’s arm
is echoed by the moving bat.
a timeless moment seems to pass
before the sound can reach the crowd.
And then you see reality,
The sweating bowler charging in
to hurl the ball with frightful speed
towards the batsman’s careful guard.
The solid click of bat on ball,
or thump of leather hitting man,
perhaps the shouted, anxious call
‘Howzat!’ will echo round the ground
and one lone man is made centre
of all attention, ‘til he makes
the gesture they’re all waiting for.
The fielders celebrate while one
lone figure sadly trudges back
to where his team-mates sit and wait.
Or, perhaps, just a shake of head
will greet the shout, then bowler turns
and trudges of to start again
his paced-out run. And in a match
where every ball that’s bowled must count,
the scampered run will get a cheer
as big as test-matches hit six
The muttered chants of ‘ten off four’
will hold spectators minds, intent
on seeing if their team can win.
I’ve come home from some matches hoarse
with shouting at batsman’s stroke
or yelling at the fielders drop.
Some days are gentle, and the match
will dwindle into lazy draw
but then, for every game like that,
I’ve seen one where my heart has raced,
my body tensed and every ball
has gone so fast I can’t believe
a day has passed so speedily.
Posted for A Saturday Celebration: Let The Games Begin on One Stop Poetry.
I'm practising blank verse