And the clouds scud across the cerulean sky
In their flight to the east,
Men in white still fight for glory with willow,
On the velvet green.
The crimson sphere prescribes its arc,
The hawk eyed warrior spots the shine,
A pool of sunlight races from boundary to boundary.
He makes his play,
The orb swings away.
Is the cry as the ball
Speeds to a man who dives full stretched.
The jubilant fielders leap with joy.
What a take this could turn the tide.
His heart sinks and he thinks, Why?
Why have a dash, a rash shot in a blinking of an eye,
Has brought about his fall,
If he could turn back time that forty nine
Could be fifty or more.
As the lengthening shadows come and go.
He makes his slow way back across the dappled green
Imagining what might have been.
The last chance of the season and reason to
Reflect on a summer of bounty and drought,
Of confidence and doubt.
And first leaves of Autumn cast a shower of russet confetti ,
Acknowledging the vanquished batsman home to the pavilion for one last time.