Tomorrow's the true Test -
leather against willow,
Pom against Aussie.
The crowd wears
wattle green-and-yellow
zinc cream on their noses
while the 'Barmy Army'
chants its soccer songs,
playing away, confused
by the upside-down order
of things: water leaves
antipodean sinks the wrong
way, and lager is
kept on ice. 'Play!'
and cameras flash
as the speedsters
come in to bowl:
'Uh-ah, Glen McGrath!'
chant the Aussies,
mumbling about
the omission of
their local hero,
Adam aptly named,
first among men
wielding the willow.
But still, eleven
tried men and true
bring the battle
to a high-fevered pitch
(the bookies wager
on how many days
the Poms will last)
as the turnstiles spin
and the stock exchange
is 'C'mon ump! Blind Freddy
could see that was out!'
Here, in ancient Cathay,
I am padded up to
go in next. Just
give me the call, Punter,
and I'll drop my laptop
and switch it for a box.
C'mon, Aussie, c'mon.
It's 36 degrees there
and minus ten here
but I'm still warming up
for the game, waving my
(virtual) baggy green in the air.
No comments:
Post a Comment