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Poetry Pleases: Play Up, Play Up And Win The Game

The wicket-keeper fails to catch cleanly
being a casualty of the double-edged sword
of middle age and arthritis...

Jean Cowgill writes with delight of the true nature and joy of village cricket.

An elderly hurricane bowls at half the pace of youth
worn out by time and the weather cycle.
At cover a freckled fool crosses the ground whippet like.
The wicket-keeper fails to catch cleanly
being a casualty of the double-edged sword
of middle age and arthritis.
A youth protects the boundary at long stop.
Arthur at first slip poses in reflection
his hand strokes incipient designer beard.
The designated twelfth man, a youth of twelve
chosen for his age, produces welcome beverage.
Bev, the antipodean captain, urges concentration.
Lemonade is gulped guiltily by the gulley
who missed a sitter of a catch two overs earlier.
Tall Ian at long off steels himself to bowl.
At point the captain orchestrates the field.
Vertically challenged twins move stumpily
to forward and backward short leg respectively.
Solomon Grundy dons helmet and moves to silly mid on.
Beneath the lime tree, at third man,
isolated Harry constructs a daisy chain.
There are three overs left and the game to win.



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