Falling through the pavilion
I knew something was wrong.
Floor boards, splintered by cricket boots,
hadn’t lasted the grounds man’s advice.
Caught between knee and thigh
armoured like a soft white knight in a jumper.
Pads acted like barbs and I was stuck and dangling.
On the pitch the flannelled enemy awaited.
The sacred scorebook of
one for each over
plotted our fate, recorded the Summer.
Shouts of “Bowler’s Name?”
interrupted the lazy, anonymous afternoons.
Corvedale’s famous cakes
their saccharined weapon.
We went out to field
The pitch looked like a long way down to bend.
The bruises lasted until Autumn.
Steve Harrison born in Yorkshire and now lives in Shropshire. His work appears in both Emergency Poet collections, Wenlock Festival, The Physic Garden, Pop Shot, Mid-Winter Solstice, The Curlew, Poets’ Republic, Riggwelter and Wetherspoons News. He regularly performs across the Midlands and won the Ledbury Poetry Festival Slam in 2014.