Sunday Cricket

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.
Play stopped.
Laughter didn’t.

The sacred scorebook of
coloured Sudoku
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
after Tea
jam packed.
The pitch looked like a long way down to bend.
The bruises lasted until Autumn.