Thursday, 25 April 2013

watching village cricket with granddad

granddad had five
and all
at one time
said mother
scrubbing the soil off the spuds
and then I remembered
the time
when I went to the one
on the slope
near the pavilion
with its view
of the scoreboard
and the square metal numbers
for hanging on hooks
- he'd shown
me the forks
and spades
and everything else
haunting the cobwebby depths
of the shed
- then at rest
on the bench
with our backs to the shed
we'd gazed out
over a barrow of compost and nettles
- but vaguely
like men deep in thoughts
of long summer evenings
- and below the allotments
my uncle
(his son)
was long at the crease
and the sum of the square metal numbers
was growing . . .


  1. A very (pleasantly) smelly poem! I can smell the earth on those potatoes. I can also smell the tang of cobwebby sheds, all of which seem to smell the same in my experience.

  2. Absolutely charming Gwil. I like the way you have spread it out because it helps with that dream-like quality of reminiscence - I am there with you in that special relationship.

  3. Pleased you enjoyed smell of it Dominic.

    Pat, those games of cricket seemed endless to a young spectator, but it was time well spent.


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