Tom Stewart

@tomstewart80.bsky.social

123 Followers 484 Following

Who would imagine a cricket ground Had ever existed here, Folded into a farm on the downland pasture, Lapping the edge of the oakwood And the buttercup-quilted rides? For the Toll is returned to plough After a century of combat, Sown to a sea of blue-green waves Beneath which it lies drowned. And now, Stick nor stone of the old pavilion, Hook nor slat of the scoreboard left: Never an echo of tumbling children, Tattle of Edwardians, Knocking their pipes out on the rough deal benches. Foaming hawthorn and rhododendron Have colonised the field-edge, spreading Through copper beech and flowering chestnut And adventitious saplings. Where Is the camaraderie Of the side I played for so often here: Their thunderous blows and heroical overs, The days that flowed with sun and wind: Stalemates in dismal drizzle, And the finger of death uplifted in the dusk?