The flash player is a vengeance god.
The ball travels over
the fence, the tall reach of beech,
sploshes into the Taff. Is lost.
The crowd stands up,
cheers, the music throbs loud,
cold lagers are gulped.
No dozing afternoon here,
no pigeons idling across green.
Next ball is mistimed, but edges
past third man and hammers
against an advertising hoarding
for life insurance. The failing
fielder is jeered.This is sport,
losers and winners, a theatre of
unclothing in defeat. The gods
glorified, those crowd pleasers
they don’t last long. Mortals
after all.
Joe deftly nudges a white ball
for one, sometimes
scampers two. The score builds.
Then Joe driving a white ball
as if it were red, all timing and
craft, but mostly accumulates
a hundred and bats until
the game is won. Near the end
proving he can do daft stuff,
Joe entertains with a cheeky
ramp shot, the ball
travelling over the wicketkeeper
for six. The crowd will stand
and cheer as if we all knew
Joe could be flash, a god
of the unorthodox ,
but there was a game
to be won and won with a nudge.