The thickets of time
come rain or shine,
scratch the best of years,
old man looking on
do you still count the cricket scores
in your sleep ?
with jumpers  for wickets,
and  blackberries  down country lanes.
Navel looking down
the vastness of your now waist line,
a mark of  your captaincy
receipts of your labour
dangling like a butchers overall.
In your limelight  your broadened smile
releases a relinquished accent
that you could never quite forgive.


.