A Piece Of Willow Poem by john (called jack) wren

I remember, I remember, a happy field
Where boys in shorts did wildly wield,
A piece of willow with spontaneous flair
To elevate a ball from ground to air.

Then run in excitement and trepidation
To a place of safety and consolation,
Blissfully unaware of one drooping jaw
Recline in frustration at another score.

Who, hurled the next one with more pace
Merely to see it quickly embrace
A circle of rope behind third man
And the umpire's hand move like a scan.

A change of bowler, a spinner perhaps
Could save this side from utter collapse,
As stump and bail refuse to descend
For the bowler to collect, his dividend.

Behind the stumps, the keeper stands
Gloves enlarge his crooked hands,
Body bent, a gaunt look on his face
Eyes popping out, heart in full race.

To his right, three slip fielders wait
Hoping the willow will take the bait
And glance the ball in their direction
Where they are ready, for any deflection.

But, the willow stands firm and stout
Stifling out any hopeful shout,
Returning the ball from whence it came
To blow out the bowlers flame.

Oh how I remember that happy field
Where boys in shorts did widely wield
A piece of willow with spontaneous flair
To elevate a ball from ground to air.