There was talk, long before, about bubbles and change,
About various mere teething troubles, and strange
Practises needed, with no crowd in the ground,
And how deafening silence was so loud, for no sound.
We had such a fine summer, through that blistering May,
That the start was inevitably sullen and grey,
So that cricker insisted, even as it returned,
Its capricious existence, which we long ago learned.
By Sunday, that rained ruined Wednesday made good,
Stretched the four days to five, and ensured that we could,
Still have all of the outcomes, still at lunch, still at tea,
Quite unbearable tension, and just how it should be.
That came after heroics from Holder and Stokes,
And some free-handed hitting and some memorable strokes,
And relentless Gabriel finding his spot,
And of venomous Archer with his blood-drawing dot.
It was blissful uncertainty, full of subplots and layers,
With the weight of all history carried by players,
And echoing that day, when all was said and done,
Cricket was back, and West Indies won.
TestMatchPoetry 