A Poem about Cricket

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For many cricketers and fans from the Northern hemisphere their cricket seasons are coming to an end. For many of us it’s a time to rest those weary legs and finally get back into the other half’s good books once more. But at the very same time every sense of the game will be missed once the season is over. . .

Tea Interval courtesy of David Gray, stalwart of SMRH 3rd XI

And did we win? I cannot tell.
I only know that ball on pitch
And green on white, and chat on bat
Appeal on pads and running up to bowl,
That drift of fielders to and fro,
An ebbing rhythm, like the flow of tide
And runs and wickets falling,
Spelled out the cricket had gone well.

Now stumps are drawn and squares roped off
Kit packed away in sheds and lofts
The score box stilled and sodden nets
And beads of rain are all that’s left.
And yet, and yet the thought remains
That if we’d scored at faster rate
Or bowled a fuller length at greater pace
And caught that chance at second slip
Or stumped in that furious chase
For runs, we might have tied and kept our place.

And so it is we sit and reminisce,
A motley crew of folk remembering
What, in bleakest of months, we miss:
The scent of new mown grass, the painted wicket,
The sound of bat on ball, our game of cricket.
But in the spring, we shall return refreshed,
Revitalised by winter’s sleep, whites newly pressed,
And swear by willow of the deeds we’ll do,
Pitch battles join, win victories new.
But most of all, at first, at best, at last,
We’ll toast the future, put away the past.
Drink in team spirit, dispel the darkening rain,
Put on our whites, walk out and play the game.



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