The Darkling Fields of StowboroughMick Harvey & Christopher Richard Barker
As the late afternoon sun drained the happy wicket dry.
Weary boys lugged heavy kit through the gathering twilight haze,
Speculating about the evening meal; oh carefree were those days.
I lingered by the pavilion, drawn to the dying light
Swooning in the sunset, a moth without the flight.
“Hurry up boy, and don't dare slack!” cried out Old Mr Bate,
Who'd claimed he'd played for the county back in 1878.
I pointed to the boundary, mouthed a pretend word or two,
Then sauntered ever deeper towards the melancholy hue.
Beyond the treetops whispered as though in silent rhyme
The golden fields of wheat rippled in syncopated time.
I filled my lungs with twilight air, thrilling at the touch,
Wondering if the world's exquisite charm would always be gentle such.
I heard a distant rumble, a menacing growl from the east,
And saw a hungry black storm cloud preparing for a feast.
The air grew chill upon my skin and caused a twitchlike shiver,
A spot of rain fell upon my arm, like blood drawn by a quiver.
I turned with haste and sudden fear and ran back to the school,
Then stood in the doorway, gazing back, trembling like a fool.
Last to leave was I, those Darkling Fields of Stowborough,
As the relentless storm churned the unhappy wicket over.
Contributed by Dq82 - 2018/12/5 - 16:54
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