Ashes Poetry

Headingley Carnegie

In the middle of a stand batsmen discard their creases
to parley twixt jousts, their yeomen chosen duties.
Shuffle pads, box, gloves, helmets, fear and bravery;
lean on pikestaffs to dismiss failure’s haunted taunting,
to discuss the matter at hand, state of play,
how to withhold each wicket whilst withering their enemies’
intent, who may snide cunning cussword cudgels in passing,
as would they, were their innings turned inside out in passing.
Twinned and pinned before overs swap creases, they pass back
to tighten their mark. Their pitch splits again in a middle of a stand,
each readied to face loneliness unyielding.

In the middle of a stand neighbours jowl neighbours:
no loneliness here. Pass comment, beer, jests, victuals, perhaps favour.
Scuffle papers, crosswords, scorecards, programmes, radio-tuners,
cameras, bets, runners and riders (with riders on runners) before –
Roar, Yell, Clap, Cheers, Groan, Moan, Gasp, Ooooo and murmur
at the closeness of it all. Till closeness ends and closure comes,
to stem scored life seen from the very midst of every stand.

Deeds empty games. The ends of each stand leave first,
leaving the last no choice how to enter history. Gainsay no odds,
in each stand at Headingley are memories too many
to bury or resurrect except in their making. Play!