When we found them under the tree
there were twenty-two men
all dressed in white,
packed in two boxes of rosewood,
between ancient and brittle
layers of yellow paper.
We set them out in classic style,
carrying their rigid bodies
up and down, up and down,
until the light began to fail;
one motionless fielder
forgotten in a corner of the room…
After the years, what’s left? These wooden trays,
brittle paper; more distantly, the smells
of leather, linseed oil, mown grass,
the batsman’s shout for one more run,
the curving ball, diving catch, as if
a bird was stopped mid-flight…
Clapping hands. White numerals. High
summer sky. All out. All out.
