Thompson came to the crease,
with trusty plank in hand,
tapping nervously at the crack in concrete.
Smith bowled, right arm over dustbin,
the delivery disguised in dim street light.
Thompson played defensively,
fending the cobble from the back door.
He knew time was running short, runs were needed, but
Smith’s guile in bowling from the darkness
pinned him back,
time and time again,
thwarting a shot of perfect timing.
Out of the night a loose ball pitched inside the gutter.
It reared and tempted Thompson to the drive.
The resounding crack of flint on pine
sent fractured missiles flying through extra cover,
the neighbour’s greenhouse.
Rows of bedroom windows lit in celebration, and unusually,
both bowler and the batsman
took the run
beyond the long on boundary.
An observer in his lofty commentary position,
high above the broken panes,
shouted that ultimate of accolades:
But Smith and Thompson were running out of earshot.
Laughing, running carefree.
Running through the summer darkness,
away from last of schooldays
Friends charging to uncertainty,
knowing who they are,
not knowing who they are to be.
Dedicated to two of my best friends at school and after, Glynn Ernest Thompson (artist and lecturer) and Kenneth Ian Smith (personnel director). Those were the days my friend.