Nearly an early tea

NEARLY AN EARLY TEA

At last it's Sunday,

The holy day,

But it's also cricket day,

Our skipper sets out to do the toss,

And returns victorious,

We decided to bat first and get runs ond the old tatty scoreboard,



Halfway to the wicket we rock paper scissors to see who will face first,

I chhose paper he chooses scissor, I have lost,

So I ask the old grumpy umpire for middle stump,

He says "play" and the match gets underway,

In runs the tall left armer,

He slings the shiny new ball down short on the grassy wicket,

I rock back on to the back foot and pull the ball away,

He gives me a fierce glare and i give him a cheeky wink,


I feel the releif wash over me as dodge a nasty short ball aimed at my fore head.

And so the overs roll by,

An the old scoreboard comes to life,

Untill the first wicket falls my partner,

He ran down the wicket, stupidly so, took a wild swing at a straight bowl,

sending his middle stump cartwheeling,

Next ball an inswing yorker sends the number three back to the pavillion,

And then another goes next ball,

A hatrick, could it get any worse,

All I can do is tell the number five to face out the last three balls,

He does so for two,

On the third he hits to a fielder and shouts "yes",

But all I can do is whimper no,

He bangs his shiny new bat into, his dusty old pads in anger,

We're seventy four for four,

The chances of winning just like the batsmen are walking back to the pavillion,

Five fall all in a row,

And in walks the most unlikleist of batsmen,

A small nine year old dressed in some baggy whites that make him look like a humam beadsheet,

Yet he stay's in blocking the straight one and bashing the wide ones,

I watch in amazment, as our chances walk back to the crease,

Eventually it had to end thanks to a bad LBW desicion,

But me and the beadsheet had saved the team from an early tea.

Hooray! A poem about cricket. I'm liking it just for that.

I'm delighted by the idea but I thought the execution of it could have been better.

An example of a good cricket poem is Simon Armitage's The Catch, which is a lovely little piece describing, well, a cricket catch.

What I think your piece suffered from was disconnected lines. What I mean by this is it seemed each line was a snapshot, especially in the first stanza. Also, the main part of it suffered from lack of description. What kind of ball? Where did you hit it to? What kind of shot was it? I liked the fierce glare/cheeky wink, although they're quite cliche phrases. I also liked the comment about holy day, and thought you might think about putting a Christian spin on this. Extend the metaphor to other lines, and you might get a stronger theme as a result.

Right now this is the barebones. Fill it in with more ideas and I think it could be ace.

I enjoy this, especially the hint of enternal rhyme in the title itself. BUT, it kind of drags along when you start describing the game of cricket itself. A more general expanation/feeling of the game may have been more effective.