At Lord's Poem by Francis Thompson
At Lord's
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!
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.
A marvellous evocation of cricket, life and death, appreciated by an exiled Lancastrian
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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10/2/2024 7:31:05 AM # 1.0.0.1119
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.