Ashes Poetry

All Cardiff

All Cardiff’s a squidgy bum
no one sane believes England’ll save a game
lost before the day dawns, not without unheralded rain
under Australian sun the top order drowns
far too cheaply, far too quickly
Green Baggy victory becomes historical
inevitability. Ockers and poms await last rites
journos calibrate their most critical sights
the crowd still cheer the home side on
still knowing the honest chance of a draw is gone.

Down under late-night joints empty
hardened fanatics stay “Get it over quick, Rickie
work tomorrow, rip off the covers all too early”
one o’clock, two o’clock, three o’clock, nigh on four,
the small hours lengthen, mad-cap writing on the tap-room wall
Panesar and Anderson, just one more wicket
Jesus, can their blokes really block it?

Sophia listens. The stands recalculate
the longest countdown since Apollo reached the moon
each ball, each minute winds the racking mechanism
of tension: sinews of deferred expectation stretch
stiffen, floodlight pylons vibrate, quiver
sightscreens avert gaze but still shiver
the empty village of tents and caravans daren’t breathe
damp brolly handles chewed through, hope gnaws hope
still to a final over, final ball, the final wicket or run
while the press box scores out wise words unwisely wrung
Anderson switches gloves, checks helmet, space-walks
to Panesar, Albion’s fate in their taut sweaty maws
cometh these men, endeth the hour
google earth agog England and Australia clenched
all Cardiff’s a squidgy bum
till a draw that is far more than a draw is insanely won.

‘Monty and Jimmy, you beauts!’
Beneath the Southern Cross embers in barbies
winter-shrouded are ashes underdone
when Australia in Wales failed to tonk a pom.

From capital to capital a capital result
next step Lord’s, bring it on
all because all Cardiff was a squidgy bum.