top of page
Cricket
After the match is won or conceded
we sip a round of beers in tribute to victory or defeat
see again face of the bowler grimaced in sweat drops
lift of arm, three fingers loving seam
then flight, bounce, cunning from a googly
the wrench, the turn, the thwack of wood on leather
Wood: as she sails towards boundary, hurled from
a shaft of cedar that once clung to careful soil
tended by a dumb gardener, watered, mulched
then beheaded in mid-sapling ardor, skinned, sawed, sanded,
oiled with finest linseed oil, all ready for
the pain of gloved fingers trembling
with the cry of your injured resilience
Leather: we don’t talk about hide that once roamed meadows
don’t remember the sweet chew of heather, fragrance of thistles,
the heaviness of milk in udders, full and distended
the quick tugs of relief, foam in the bucket
then the slaughterer’s knife, the spurt of blood,
skinning, hanging, drying, curing, then cutting and trimming
exactly to regulation size, stitched with twine
from God knows which helpless plant, then packed
with rag or cotton or whatever it is that goes inside
behind those eyes, that grimace
What lingers in the afterglow?
The smile of a feminine admirer, her mohair cardigan
(no injury or harm done here) beaming up at you
with just a hint of promise
Best of all, a beer with camaraderie, slow drift
of foam down tankard and stories,
always stories, overs counted, runs tallied,
heroes unearthed from their ashes
© Johnmichael Simon
2007
.
bottom of page