The Umpire

Celebrating the return of cricket, as the rain lashes down on the empty seats at the Test in Southampton. Today the sun is out and lower level cricket returns.

The Umpire

This was going to be his last season.
Eyes dimming, brain not so sharp,
the slight stumbling and shaking hand;
the harbinger.

And soon his battered old white coat
will hang in his wardrobe;
the six beads in the pocket
uncounted.

He had loved playing
but his skills were short of the mark.
He laughed and signalled "short run"
to himself.

Unexpectedly he found his place; standing
behind the stumps or at square leg.
Hearing the thumping spikes
behind him; watching the batsman
prepare, the red projectile launched,
the fizzing as he followed

its arc.

He closes his eyes; smells the leather,
the oil, the fresh mown grass.
Recalls the slight youth, mocked
by the old lags on his tremulous walk
to the middle.

Inwardly smiling as the boy
caressed that first delivery;
smooth as a cat on its owner's leg.
Dismissed it across the dry turf. Followed
it with many more. 

That boy was old now too.
Both waiting for stumps
to be called. Or the cry of Howzat!
followed by that dreadful pause
to see if God would raise
his finger.

Tim Fellows 2020

Image by sitnfidget from Pixabay