A Cricketer’s Last Boundary

Weeping willows formed an honour guard
For the cricket ball writ with a noble name
A team of ten, which had once been eleven
Would never be the same side again

No bails united the forlorn stumps
Since this wicket had fallen some days ago
And as the bowler delivered to the lone batsman
The hushed crowd willed for a six to go

The magical sound of leather on willow
The sweet smell of freshly cut grass
A cricketer crossing the last boundary
To a third innings that would forever last


Michael Ashby

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