Festival Cricket
Sitting placed by Square Leg
pint of bitter in hand;
drifting across from Peasholme
music from the band.
This match is like a chess game,
each batter settled in
run rate slowly rising, one end
tied down with spin.
An edge of frustration
causes a half chance.
An attempted drive
Gives a leg glance.
Nagging little off breaks
keep a batter on his toes;
can’t afford a mis-stroke
playing one of those.
A delicate little floater
causes a lapse.
Caught by the Keeper.
Well played chaps.
I can rush for a refill
as they take a drinks break,
then it’s back to the battle
of forcing a mistake
O what a way to die.
Couldn’t ask for more.
Last sight seeing victory
from a well driven four.
Its stumps for now
and I’m on my way.
Be back tomorrow
for the final day
Oh how I love
this beautifully clever game
Small wars of wits
No two matches the same.
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