This might be the last time I get to see cricket this year, which would be a shame. Not sure if I’ll get the same joy from football. But anyway here goes.
August feels like April now,
The sun’s warmth hidden by the cloud,
Still they come and still they play
Here every other Saturday.
Yet August is a different game,
Although conditions seem the same,
When batters have to conquer spin,
If they retain theirs hope to win,
They now, on slower pitches, wait,
To judge the ball and play it late,
To cut it, if there’s space allowed,
And run it to the coated crowd,
Who sit with crisps and cups of tea,
A yard back from the boundary,
On benches that are etched with names,
Of those before who watched these games.