A cricket match in BirkenheadPark

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.

Skating swallows,

day-bats,

flit to the oaks.



Under the pavilion tents,

calm and creosote seep

from the dark boards.

Out there, Matty cries

'C'mon boys, one more push.'



Sparse handclaps

from the parchment palms

of old men echo their lives thinly now,

rising 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.