Sunday, 12 July 2009

SUNDAY 12th JULY 2009.

The iron lamppost outside the old house
Was used as our cricket stumps;
Every hour you could tell when a wicket
Fell as it echoed for another
Soul hopeful enough to hit and miss the
Hedged garden on the left or
Walled yard to the right. Square drives
On either side or straight over the
Bowler’s head were all the back lane
Offered, as a lob over the privet
Led to begging for the ball back from the
Old hag who lived there, and
Beyond the wall a hound lounged with
Teeth enough to burst the hardiest
Of balls. Though one day I thought me a
Lion tamer, and came through its
Gate to gently fetch a rash top edge, but
As I reached toward the lost orb
The damn dog lurched and chased me up
The wall, where, piercing my trailing
Leg, it dangled me before releasing me
On my head. Suffice to say enough
Flesh was flayed to give the beast an
Aperitif, and me four stitches
Each side and scars to remind me to
This day. I never played much
After that, as I was always nervous at
The crease as to where an off drive
Might lead, but the old metal streetlight
Still stands and commands the
Attention of drunkards in the night and
Dogs in the day who piss up it bails.

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