Tan brogues clip dandelion heads.
Dandelion snow rolls across the wicket
into the spluttering face of its keeper – the mother.
An uncle on the sideline reads his messages
aloud to himself, white shirt untucked and soaked through
at the underarm. A twenty pace run-up and the ball is
released, over-armed, darting out of the sun.
The bat, now poised, is swung –
an explosion of bales, a bewildering wood-crack.
Wheeling from his crease the bowler’s air-punch
greets the pouting batsman. The bat itself now spirals
from his skinny child arms,
the arms themselves, sun browned,
now crowned by palms
upturned in prayer.
