OLD MAN AT A CRICKET MATCH
‘It’s mending worse,’ he said,
Turning west his head,
Strands of anxiety ravelled like old rope,
Skitter of rain on the scorer’s shed
His only hope.
Seven down for forty-five,
Catches like stings from a hive,
And every man on the boundary appealing -
An evening when it’s bad to be alive,
And the swifts squealing.
Yet without boo or curse
He waits leg-break or hearse,
Obedient in each to lease and letter -
Life and the weather mending worse,
Or worsening better.
- Norman Nicholson
- Norman Nicholson
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