Summer Reflections

White flannels and a crisp fresh turf beneath you,
A Summer sun, a soft breeze from the south
Blue white the sky and cool the shade of trees
That offer rest when you hare got them out.
The clean sharp click that marks the batsman's triumph,
The hoarse excited cry that marks his fall,
What if you field in hopeless desperation
You too hare known King Cricket's Thrall.
On blue green fields in the fresh nip of Springtime,
In listless lazy nerveless Summer days,
Through golden hoars of the long Indian Summer
You took your strike and modest total raised.
In Memory's eye by Winter's roaring fireside
You saw those other days in pictures dear
And lived again each tingling zestful moment
That Times effacing Finger cannot clear.

—J.A.C.