He’s as calm as an oak.
No seismic rumble in the gut;
no shift in the gentleman smile.
And he breezes to his stance
more daffodil to camera than oak.
But he’s a big hitter; a sky dibber;
a six-over-the-stand sprayer;
a bowler slayer; fieldsman teaser;
He leaps the air; calls up joy
to celebrate each hundred
and flies the bounds
like an open road.
He has a gun bat. He’s a thunder
cloud over the bowling arm. A plough
of grief tearing their hearts.
What joy when he’s out! Like a great blaze
that had blighted the whole world.