Weeping willows formed an honour guard
For the cricket ball writ with a noble name
A team of ten, which had once been eleven
Would never be the same side again

***

No bails united the forlorn stumps
Since this wicket had fallen some days ago
And as the bowler delivered to the lone batsman
The hushed crowd willed a six to go

***

The magical sound… of leather on willow
The sweet smell… of freshly cut grass
The cricketer… crossing the last boundary
To a third innings that would forever last

***

Michael Ashby