Green grass lovingly combed every other day
Pitch perfect, is the verdict, the players often say.
A hard core leather ball hurtles down the balding wicket
The batsman's heart skips a beat before he decides to hit it.
Has it gone far enough, beyond the fielders grasp
Will it reach the boundary under a thorny rasp?
Can it be retrieved and thrown back into play?
Will the runner be out, or safely home without delay.
See the angished bowler try to bamboozle with his throw
The umpire checks his feet, have they crossed the line below?
Over half the team are out of sight beyond the playing ground
For the others are in, till those are out, I think that's what I've found.
Sometimes the ball is hit high into the sky blue air
A cry of calls descend, and point up in despair
The fielder catches briefly then throws the ball up high
The umpire then decides, he must not tell a lie.
On warm shores far away they play all round the clock
In England it's played seriously, and the papers make them talk
It matters much to know which County wins the league
And which club goes the course despite suffering fatigue.
But now I must reveal the picture on display
It was taken in Dumfries where a group of them sometimes play
So I wonder if the game will take an interest abroad
Or maybe best discovered, in poetry's every word.