Grandpa always favoured this ground
Circled by oaks spreading and round
No longer a player but reliving his youth
When he used to hit sixes over the pavilion roof.

Creamy cable knit becomes soft checked shirt
Nimble legs now arthritic and hurt.
Eyesight once sharp and keen
Replaced with bifocals and a dream
Of those magical matches on Sunday afternoons
That he enjoyed and relished but ended too soon.

Instead of a full toss or boundary four
His eyes sometimes close while watching the score
He sips sweet tea from his thermos flask
His memory fades and he doesn’t ask
About his former team mates
And he just sits and waits.

Now he relaxes and watches from his canvas chair
A soft twinkle in his eye and wisp of white hair.
Memories are precious things that can always be replayed
Sleeping in summer’s heat, 28 degrees in the shade.

Anni Morris ~ August 2011