0 Posted by - February 15, 2017 - Verse, Worse

The other day
Last January
I did a thing
I’ve never done
A touch of madness.

The barmy army
And their team
The English
Were here in town
Creating sadness.

Why so, well
Despite the heat
And sterling SA efforts
Fleeting gladness

The locals were
To coin a cliché
Hit for (a) six
By the slogging English
Causing much anguish.

My father, dead
This past year or so
Was cricket mad
Coached, batted, bowled
Wickets smoothly mowed

Till his time came
Indeed, I’m sure
He died with
Cricket in his sights
TV at his bed-end.

The sad thing is
Years of cricket
Teas mattered more
Squash and sticky bread
The memories in my head.

Or sister Sarah
A toddler too
Calmly tipping
Pee-pot into Dad’s
Pristine cricket bag.

So cricket drew me not
Despite my Gunn & Moore
And a father no doubt
Desperate for some talent
That sadly never happened.

My only contribution was
In my early teens
For many years at school
As first eleven scorer
Perfect play recorder.

So no urges strong were
Calling on my soul
To spend a wilting day
Shadeless in Newlands
With countles cricket fans.

In the searing sun
We watched two men
Slog a blob of red
Around a stadium
Super-heated tedium.

I am not yet sure
If being there made
More sense of him to me
Or not. I rather fear
The latter, but maybe
I must ponder more
The meaning of this
Oh so English passion.

For if it sends some
Barmy it must
Have startling power
To draw the mad
Around the world
To follow it:
For now it beats me why –
But when the answers come
I promise I will share them.

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