The grass is too long

Mossed by a hundred wet summers

Rolling in from the western sea

Deadening the bounce

And flattering my feeble attempts

At shape and spin

Cutting out all shots

Apart from sweep and drive

.

But to me and my boy

This too is sacred turf

Our ‘Lords’

.

Where memories are made

By crafty curl of leather

And the joyous crack of willow

As the bat hallelujahs its connection

.

And the trees around the field

Clap their hands