Under Manchester Skies

Under Manchester skies do I stand,

Wet.

The steel-grey skies release their cargo upon me.

A steady drizzle,

Horrible drip-drip soaking wet weather that never stops.

Through my coat, through my clothes,

My very skin threatens to slough away.

I stare up through the rain at the steel-grey skies

And reflect that I cannot remember a single Old Trafford Test

That wasn't affected by the weather in some way.

I try to blink the rain from my eyes,

Scowling and squinting at the skies above,

Wishing I could find a better metaphor than "steel-grey."

Or is it a simile?

It has been so long since I studied the details

And since I am a poet,

It really is something I should know.

I raise my collar and step forwards with a sigh,

Only to step in a puddle.

The Manchester skies are steel-grey today,

Just like they were yesterday.

In Praise Of Darren Stevens

The sun gleams off his scalp

As he waits at his mark,

Thoughtfully polishing the ball

And squinting at his quarry. 

The batsman takes his guard,

Scratching at the turf.

One last look around the field,

and he's ready.

The bowler smiles slightly.

He looks down,

Only for a moment,

And fixes his gaze on the target.

He runs,

Gracefully,

Ball in hand

Up, up, up,

A leap,

Arms in motion.

The batsman waits with his willow aloft.

Back and across.

Left foot forwards.

Bat sweeps down.

Too late.

He doesn't even look back,

The sound ball on wood came from behind.

Darren Stevens has claimed another victim.

Stevo is 45 years old,

A proper Dazzler.

And being a couple of years younger than me,

I feel certain he has a bight future ahead of him.

That young whippersnapper Jimmy Anderson

Could learn a thing or two from him,

I am quite sure.

The beauty of watching Stevens play cricket

Is his joyful abandon when playing.

He bats like a man without a care in the world,

Flaying good county bowlers to all parts of the ground.

When will the England and Wales Cricket Board

See sense and call him up?