To Hold A Cricket Ball
Sometimes when time plays a slow march
And light forgets the point of being day
I need to hold a cricket ball
For a cricket ball has weight and purpose
The hand cannot help itself. Wraps the red.
Finds and curves the semicircle
And a faint muscle memory flickers
I roll the ball, two fingers on the seam
Pull back - the ball may snap and rear
Twisted right and an off-break should occur
Slide left - a miracle googly perhaps
Flip over - a scuttling shooter
The ball is comfort - a perfect contest
I am long past the game - but not the ball
Tiny moments, the golden fields
Detail still trapped in sunny green amber
A six for twenty against Molehill Green
What a track. Backed onto hay fields
Pocked and tufted with dollops of couch grass
Their 35 a challenging target
We eased there - with a wicket to spare
Was an early tea that day, I recall
And a long warm night at The Three Horseshoes
Ale and tales of pitches of old
Bury me with a cricket ball. Third change.
Right Arm Over. Fingers astride the seam
Ready for the future diggers
Clearing me for a seven lane bypass
And as they ponder the significance
Of my grip and gently lever
Away the clay, dry phalanges will fall
And the rotted ball will be pris’d from earth
New eyes will scan the inscription
’Dukes’ and claim a high-status burial
A faded red orb seeking paradise
And my off-break may grace a museum.