The Cricket Field

Fortunate indeed this field;

It’s destiny is not to yield

A harvest made with wheat and corn

From rutting plough or harrow born,

But cleared of lump & stump & thicket

Is set aside for playing cricket.

In winter gentle sheep may graze

Preserving turf for summer days,

A picket fence thrown round the square

Should hoof or human trespass there.

Some say we should share – use the land-

Clearly, they don’t understand.

This field shall always take its name

Only from England’s noblest game.

Despite its level disposition

And most favourable condition

Hockey posts shall not be found,

This is no recreation ground.

Four generations, maybe more,

Since long before the first World War,

Cricketers long gone, & some

Who play today, & those to come,

All sow unmixed the seeds of cricket

And harvest only run & wicket.

By Arthur Salway