Francis Thompson
Preston, England
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At Lord's

Rating: 2.8
It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though my own red roses there may blow;
It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though the red roses crest the caps, I know.
For the field is full of shades as I near the shadowy coast,
And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost,
And I look through my tears on a soundless-clapping host
As the run-stealers flicker to and fro,
To and fro: -
O my Hornby and my Barlow long ago!
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COMMENTS
paulymcc 19 October 2020
This is the poem of a man who knows his addictions and lifestyle will soon kill him. Who looks back on his innocent childhood, filled with cricket, a train set and a pen knife in his native Lancashire. Now, estranged from his home county and estranged from life, the connection with cricket only reminds him of his own mortality. A wonderful poem.
0 0 Reply
Michael Walker 24 June 2020
One of the first poems about Lord's which I have read. It is lifted beyond the ordinary by introducing a surreal, ghostly atmosphere, which can happen in the memory with the passing of a very long time. 'And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost, '. I went to this cricket ground also a long time ago now.
0 0 Reply
Stuart Ashworth 10 January 2018
A marvellous evocation of cricket, life and death, appreciated by an exiled Lancastrian
2 1 Reply
peter ekstein 06 December 2017
better read by a man
1 1 Reply
Frederick Guano 19 July 2008
This is only the 1st stanza, where's the rest?
1 2 Reply

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