JW Jones thunders at me
nostrils flaring, shirt flapping, eyes piercing
in a belligerent onslaught.
JW Jones leaps at me
crashing through the crease with
flailing arms, flying sweat, exploding breath;
finishing empty, bent double -
a redundant musket,
its solitary shot sent into battle.
The red leather fired with venom,
three pounds of wood primed,
two-thirds of a second to react,
one option presents;
the boundary beckons.
The willow arcs through its parabola
assaulting the leather with a deep, rich gunshot;
blade numbed by the hit-and-run impact.
except the ball screaming fencewards,
its cherry-red epitaph smeared on the bat;
statues in the outfield watch on.