davo drops a catch at cover

as the bespectacled batsman crawls to 8 

tarlee oval then shrinks like grandma’s backyard

at dusk he’s gone for 295

& davo is still shouting.

 

a wicket or a solitary run

barossa grand final  

last delivery taunts the nervous bat    

keeper & slips yell & rush

but the ball (eyes shut) squeezes somehow

between middle & leg

& escapes to the fence

we remain stumped.

 

i’m a very handy cricketer

says the burly minnipa policeman    

i can’t bowl bat or field but

i live right behind the town oval.

 

raw appeals startle the afternoon breeze

baggy caps dusty     

prickled outfield brown

in the pub & around an autumn bbq

these worn yarns

like treasured old mates

slap our backs & cackle

cricket, rich as a sepia photograph.