The cricket season reached its end that day.

We mothballed all the stumps and pads and gloves

And pondered over matches not yet played,

The stolen opportunities for some.

We thought of runs we scored and catches claimed,

And contemplated England for a time

And what impending winter may well bring.

 

How many years would pass till we again

Undo our bags to twirl our oiled bats

And feel the thump of leather on the blade?

Meanwhile, would our eleven all come back;

Would raindrops on the square turn into blood?

Would gaps appear, ambitions be cut short,

Would war conflate its awful self with sport?