Ground knitted green with barely a missed stitch
Smoothed by curators’ love and care and hope
But all eyes drift to the sunbaked bald pitch –
Can bowlers clinch or will the batsmen cope?
The home team fields in baggy greens and creams.
The catching men fidget and sneer and sledge,
Hardened by their rise to reach boyhood dreams
They’ve never wavered from their starstruck pledge.
Lusty blows race away and spread the field
To deep midwicket and backward square leg.
Chin music plays to bid the batsmen yield,
Good-length balls swing to dislodge offside’s peg.
Thousands watch on as if they’re in a trance
And there’s five days more of this gritty dance.