Playing Ball


There are seven cricket games going on
7 balls, 77 boys, 14 bats
Someone hits a sixer, by a hair breadth
I duck brain damage, everybody seems happy
Including me just-miss-skull-mash
By cork, leather, string and sewn seam.

People walk past unaware of falling balls
The wind blows the wind
Leaves collect in a single corner
Huddled up together cousins, grandparents
Families, midgets crumble into autumn
A wedding party without bride and groom.

A man waters the field where nothing grows
The dust settles, a fake rain rises
Before he fields the ball he grabs my eye
His lust clatters mudwards
Someone gets out I am sorry man-in-white
That of me which can give is dead


Published by


v.k. arathi menon. wordsmith. traveller. single malt lover. book devourer. humour seeker. sometimes humble pie eater. tweets @unopenedbottle. columnist

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