Off Season

Het hoofdveld in ruste. De square ingezaaid. Hier geen cricket tot april. Niettemin een vertrouwd en prachtig beeld.
Zo heb je er wel meer, niet hier, vooral over de plas. Unieke velden, geweide grond, waar vooral Britten lyrisch van kunnen worden. Enkele herkenbare raakvlakken trof ik in het volgende gedicht dat ik u niet wil onthouden, zo vlak voor Sinterklaas.

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