Cricket Lament Poem by Steve Pringle

The delicious crack of leather on willow,
Snapped through the air,
On a warm Berkshire evening,
Followed by shouts and the running of boots,
To save the ball from the boundary fleeting,
A ripple of mutters and hands applauding,
Follow on changes the scoreboard recording,

Step to the crease and tap down the hump,
Casual look round, and mental arranging,
Gesture the field as a General deploying,
Spin the ball down raise bat to the thump,
Armies of fielders, then clean bowl leg stump,
Slow walk pavilion, so soon journey back,

This was the land of the proud County shires,
Fast bowling to body hurled Larwood on fire,
Botham and Jardine true sons of the wicket,
Strode the two twenty and ran for their club,
And hit to the boundaries or village green pub,
Such glorious claps rang out from the stand,
This was their time and that was our land! !