Figures on the green

Saturdays spent in searing heat
creeping over a green, cropped carpet
white figures in adversarial struggle
are cooked like lobsters in their own sweat

the leather hits the imported dirt,
willow caresses pushing it to the edge,
throats call out in their starved parchedness
some get bowled, others caught; some retire hurt.

Time spent chasing or whacking the ball
could have been more profitably invested
chasing girls or earning a holiday
but then the love of the game was all.

Every Summer was spent bathing in suncscreen
and recounting the day's events in the bar,
practicing for hour upon hour, daily
Now you wonder what might have been.

A childhood dream never to be reached
dreams now remain to be laughed at,
a legacy of six hour days in the sun,
when all you got was your hair bleached