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.