Cover-drive (yeah – a cricket poem!)

 

JW Jones thunders at me
nostrils flaring, shirt flapping, eyes piercing
in a belligerent onslaught.

JW Jones leaps at me
crashing through the crease with
flailing arms, flying sweat, exploding breath;
finishing empty, bent double –
a redundant musket,
its solitary shot sent into battle.

The red leather fired with venom,
three pounds of wood primed,
two-thirds of a second to react,
one option presents;
the boundary beckons.

The willow arcs through its parabola
assaulting the leather with a deep, rich gunshot;
blade numbed by the hit-and-run impact.

Time stops.

No sound,
no feeling,
no movement,

except the ball screaming fenceward,
its cherry-red epitaph smeared on the bat;
statues in the outfield watch on.

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