For Francis Thompson
Here on the green square’s edge
At a point of silence listen,
a quarrel of sparrows in the covert,
a distant mower, a single car,
a butterfly flits by, then,
quietly the past alights
and the old run stealers flicker.
No Hornby, no Barlow long ago,
Hutton drives half volleys
through mid-wicket. Take care,
don't pitch it up to me,
I have ...equilibrium, that's it
balance, timing. Beauty!
And Washbrook’s unerring throw.
Do not steal a run from me,
There ... six inches over the bails,
I can do it every time.
The short square shouldered figure
Struts and patrols the covers,
No ghostly figure he.
Of what moment is this moment?
I remember schooldays.
The captain shouted Catch it!
Butterfingers! Field at fine leg,
Not mid-off or in the slips
Nor at cover or long on,
Think that Washbrook's in.
Never drop Washbrook.
©Terry Hodgson2020
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