Welcome to my one hundredth blog!
I have never written poetry and speak it very badly, rarely getting the rhythm right but I do like reading some of it as long as its not too heavy. In celebration I've written one, about cricket of all things, but it's summer, it's England and village greens are surrendering themselves to the weekend sound of leather on willow, (with old men pulling muscles and young men losing fingernails as they bravely go for balls that are hit far too hard.)
In Tribute to Village Cricket
Not for us the murmuring Lords
This village vanguard team;
‘Tis just enough to cross our swords
Wi’ lads from beyond the stream.
Our flat green wicket, amid the square:
The scene of battle many,
Where heroes only here may dare
And cowards ne’er tarry.
No Flintoft here to smirk and sledge
To frighten man and boy,
Just grocer Tom with simple pledge
His Yorkers to deploy.
Umpire Fred puts on the bails
And roaming dogs do cower,
Mongrels slink with lowered tails
To avoid his look so sour.
Locals gather around the flags
With nervous anticipation;
Deck chairs, beer and trembling fags
At village son’s participation.
The first ball’s down, short and wide,
The batsman plays and nicks;
‘Owzat’ in unison, aloud is cried -
The index finger flicks.
The wickets fall, the runs are meagre,
Home lads are steaming through;
To see Tail-enders off, and eager
For a welcomed interval brew.
The Umpire is surely having a laugh!
(Our innings starts with a falter;)
“You’re out, it calls to you, the bath,”
Sacrificed on seamers alter.
The bouncers whizz, the out-swing teases
Our lads, it seems no answer;
With fours so rare and singles squeezes-
To the score it’s no enhancer.
Last over comes, eleven’s facing
Nightmares all coming true;
Onslaught - sinews tired of bracing,
Body black and blue.
Just four required, no skill has he
As rocket like, ball comes down;
Thick outside edge past slip men three
Cherry skips with bowler’s frown.
Will ball meet boundary as runs come slow?
Field-er dives headlong;
The ball sneaks past the boundary flag,
Air punched and victory song!
No hard feelings, hands are shaken,
Backs are heartily slapped;
Beer is served in yonder pavilion,
A good day’s work is capped.
The dogs return, the walkers roam,
Of victory, memory fades;
On this green veldt, on English loam
That once saw willow blades.
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