A School Cricket Match

　
A wafer-thin captain cries across the field
“C’mon lads”
He claps thin air above his head
and skews a maroon cap backward,
bravehearted as all captains should be.

Little Ste. comes steaming in
hurling, all arms and legs,
becoming a cream comma.
The ball is cracked
and the outfield scrambles,
doubling up at the boundary.
“They’re getting too many runs”.

The magical ball is handled lovingly –
roughed up, a ruby rubbed on pants
examined, coddled.
Cricket pads too big for thin shins
knock against knobbly knees.

“Contemplate every delivery”
calls the fat coach
from the boundary rope.
Captain's thin arms are windmilling,
pride in his chest.
Cream shirts are billowing sailcloth
on the field.

“Too expensive Chris” booms the coach
his voice breaking into balmy air,
and the field thins out to Cooper Avenue.
“Danny, get your gloves under it –
yer s’posed to be backing up”.
　
Then Stewart at second slip stoops suddenly
Into an H. Throws in to smash stumps.
The airbreaks into thunderclap “Howzatt?”
The team swarms in, huddles, becoming
a white knot of victory.

Hand slaps hand in double-fives
like the sound of returning harbour waves.
Etiquette and pride are the still precious fragments
of the gentle game, the gentleman’s game –
the players still coming in and out
of the field as it were a tide.

The crack of willow bat
and cry of captain still echo
across swallow filled skies.