Ashes Poetry

Tough luck, Tom Watson, at the Turnberry Open, but if you wanted real-deal sporting thrills and spills this weekend you should have been at Congham, Norfolk for the World Snail Racing Championships (The French are also-rans: they eat their competitors.) It’s bright and breezy July morning, and instead of taking the 13 or 82 bus I’m going to walk to Lord’s; a final pilgrimage of a five day test.

Wandered through Hamstead Heath, getting myself thoroughly lost, (far better than losing, and a good thing to while walking in a park) before bussing down the Finchley Road. I miss the countryside at least as much as home – good to walk through grassland and watch a stag lead roe deer to graze. Of course back in the Peak District we hardly give a second glance to llama, alpaca, buffalo, ostrich (seriously, there may be no tarts in Bakewell, the last one retired about five years ago, more’s still the pity, but local buffalo, not to mention venison is definitely on the menu at the Farmer’s Market.) Almost bought a chopped liver bagel from Harry Morgan’s – my guts are 100% kosher, and yearns Yiddish scran – but settled for their latte. Somehow by lunchtime a chopped liver bagel would lose its appeal, win or lose. I walk through St John’s Wood graveyard and church. Thomas Lord was also involved in the graveyard too. The new pavilion at his new ground was used to celebrate the new cemetery designed to solve the problem of too many charnel houses within the city – London’s surburban sprawl was preceded by the disposal of the dead.

Disposing of the last five Australian wickets is England’s task at hand. I’ve a ground admission ticket which means bedlam to get a half-decent perch more or less behind the bowler’s arm. Behind me a Sheila complains that the MCC confiscated her flag to be returned at the end of play. After Clarke’s and Haddin’s resistance, the end comes quite quickly before lunch, but not before Mitchell Johnson smacked a smart sixty.  The missing flag flags at least the title of today’s poem to celebrate the contest as much as its outcome….

Confiscate All Flags

Confiscate all flags, banish their bunting,
kneel to annoit tasks’ end, of labour and doubt.
Warrant and forget. Move on, tests will out
play themselves were celebration-hunting
an honest globe; charted proof aligning
forg’d valour embreech’d triumph’s petty rout
bought, not earned: mass’d media atout
yells, gawps, misbegotten cousins gloating
dumbs the morrow while the morrow shall beat
each win too vainly commemorated
till the game’s bones break. All brave teams eat
at the same table. Their contest sated,
there will be more, if not more to meet
before time’s great door bequeaths the departed.

2nd Test, Lord’s England 425 & 311/6 dec  Australia 215 & 406 England won by 115 runs

Tweet by Tweet commentary

5-313, Confiscate all flags Celebrate the contest to banish sibling imposters to the lands of wilful ignorance, gloating and selfish rancour
6-313 Haddin edges Fred Supreme Super Centaur to doughty Colllingwood. Ablion Underground test escalators for reopening of the Victory Line.
6-314 Ubermenchpferd Flintoffen cracks Clarke’s bat, clangs helmet but yet to break his dutch boy finger in the dyke standfast resistance.
6-337 Johnson edges Freddie nearly makes it a catch, pitch getting lower and slower. Clarke’s cover drive stings Lord’s grass and confidence
7-356 Swann beats Clarke all ends up through the air, beautiful ball to end magnificent innings Escalators clunch and grind on Victory Line
8-363 Horitz leaves the censorious Centaur alone, off-stump disappears. Poms check back pockets for Victory Line oyster cards, 1934 vintage
9-389 The might of Fred wreck-balls Siddle’s stumps Kneels mid-pitch in five-for exhausted triumph. Johnson’s worthy fifty delays final roar
10-486 Johnson’s long handle bars entry to Victory Line till Swan dips below barriers and 75 year delay over. Wallace Simpson news to come