A cricket match at Birkenhead park

North of the dark boards,
the big hand slips down the dial, contented.
The hours, the minutes,
the overs are happily segmented.
The men in white are pegged out,
sundial hands with strip shadows
at square or forty-five.
Under the pavilion tents,
creosote seeps from the dark boards.
Sparse hand claps
from the parchment palms of old men
echo their lives thinly now.
Slow hand-claps rise faintly, sweetly from the field.
Reedy encouragements are
scattered to the boundary.
The ball squirts away from the line.
The tide of men advances,
recedes.
The constellation is reset
to shimmer unwavering
on the field.