Saturday, October 08, 2016

Season end

The voice of cricket is dumb
while the shades grow,
in deep mid off
and the grass begins its slumber.

In the outer field
a tree
plays wicketkeeper
to a redundant roller
gathering rust to its bosom
in the shortening days.

The next ball,
full tossed,
when the grass itself
wears whites,
will be
a snowball.

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