Pavilion in Winter

While soccer has its day and cricket sleeps

The old pavilion its vigil keeps;

Made fast from wind and rain it is at its best

A place for dogs to sniff and birds to rest,

An incidental thing, but to a few,

Surety in kind for better things to do.

Let’s take a detour from this frosty field

And see what things of interest lie concealed.

 Unknown yet well known; none, yet all the same,

Cloned to a likeness by a common game;

The dressing rooms where lesser mortals might

Transform themselves to demi-gods in white,

The seats that secretly lift to provide

Compartments where a cricketer can hide

Metal scoreboard numbers, boundary flags,

Nets and stumps and heavy canvas bags.

And opposite, across the stud-plucked floor

Beyond the glazed half open kitchen door

An ancient water heater, plug pulled out,

A folded dishcloth flung across its spout;

A brown enamel teapot, cups and spoons

Exclusively for match day afternoons

The helpers with the players snatched away

Like swallows with the ever short’ning day.

 Cold and silent: sunk within its walls

The echoes of a thousand summer calls;

Shouted batting orders, discontent,

Muffled curses, loud encouragement,

The heavy sounds of boots on hollow boards

And mock abuse that comradeship affords.

And in the nadir of those winter suns

The ghosts of cricket’s long forgotten ones.

 Should passers-by imagine they have found

A park or council recreation ground

And wrongly think it offers, if you please,

A place for summer fetes or jamborees

The wooden sentinel reserves its peace

‘Til cricket takes again its summer lease

And strangely driven folk as strangely clad

Resume their rituals with bat and pad.

                                        By Arthur Salway