The black stitched cherry
being tossed down the pitch
is turned away for the deft quick single,
the sly look of happiness
on the batsman face as he outwits the wicket
keeper is all too evident
through my binoculars, purchased by my wife
for days such as this,
not a ship sailing on the edge of the horizon,
but to witness the glorious catch
of the fielder on the other side of the ropes, down
in the Noir of Third Man, one inch from a six.
The singles rack up, the odd four and wicket
taken here and there, then the explosion
of willow on leather and high against the Warwick Road sun,
the ball tumbles down, hurtling
meteor dust trailing
in its wake and the fielder steadies himself
for glory or for ridicule from all sections of the stand
behind him, vocally cheering him
to make their mobile phone caught pictures
the talk of Manchester tonight.
He steadies himself as the batsman sweats,
cherry, meteor, mockery, hero worship,
fumbled catch, dropped to the floor
like a hot potato in slippery hands,
or
cleanly taken, red welts appearing,
brushed aside, out
caught and heavens shining down on Old Trafford,
the choir singing his name…
through binocular lenses,
I sense Old Trafford tense
and await
the outcome of the last ball of the day.
Ian D. Hall 2017