The Darkling Fields of Stowborough

Mick Harvey & Christopher Richard Barker
Lingua: Inglese

Last to leave was I, those Darkling Fields of Stowborough,
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.

Pagina principale CCG

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