Let’s tell a tale of England fair,
Of willow, cork and leather,
Of journeys to the countryside,
Where old friends come together.
A day off work, a timely break,
Release from mundane task,
The hallowed turf, the whitewashed crease,
We’re there- no need to ask.
The cars arrive, the pitch prepared,
The changing rooms all-chatting,
The toss to come, decision’s tough,
Are we bowling ? Are we batting ?
Yet warbler’s tune, so soulfully played,
Does suddenly fall still,
As angry cloud and sharpening breeze,
Now shroud the nearby hill.
Once sky so bright, once hopes so high,
Another splendid game,
No ball will bowl, we’re going home,
It’s pissing down with rain….