Cricket In The Fifties Poem by Andrew Cuthbert

For the first time, this spring,
I wondered if I'd play again.
Had a pre-season net, thought:
It's really time to stop.
Then got the call: 'You OK
For Sunday? ' 'That's fine, '
I heard a voice say.

So I find myself in early May
In the outfield on a Dorset hill.
The wind whips in from deep fine leg;
I shiver in my sweater, knitted by my Mum.
She's been dead ten years.

The sun comes out and other days
Come back, on other grounds-
Newenden, in the Weald,
Bucolic-sounding Chinbrook Meadows,
In the heart of south-east London.
St Ishmaels, Pembs., on a field
Growing alfalfa.
The farmer on his tractor cut a strip
While we got changed.

And long ago, on packed brown earth,
Earnestly forward defensive: a ten year-old
On a matting wicket
At the height of an African summer.

In the pub, the seniors nurse their pints;
The rest play pool and drink their cokes.
I'm stiff, but glad I didn't stop.
After all, you're a long time not playing.