Under a stony sky on that scuffed pitch
Flecked with the memory of hail
Where Elin still plays horses in Specsaver glasses
And the goal-line technology confounds,
My manly fingers dried out like winter veg
The games, despite the cold, went great.
The warm-up might have lasted years – perhaps it did?
Owain never grew above four feet.
But rarely has a test in Llandissilio been so… passed.
He bossed the thing and flailed that bat
Sword-like and reckless through the chilled swathe
His cheeks flushed, hands numb.
I clapped and stamped and ooohed and aahed
With heart. To keep them happy – to keep me warm.
Calibrating this or that, according to the manual.
So cherish and celebrate this brilliant catch or stop,
The moment of some daft, uplifting grace or bouncing joy
For this or that non-sporty girl or boy.
A spiteful grab, mind, then mild rebellion
As, unsubtly, the littl’uns shirk their fielding job.
Relax. The focus comes and goes when you are eight.
And as it does, where else to look but up?
Distracted by some floating, fleeting presence
I might, in fact, forgive.
From Mid-off comes the call,
Sky-punchingly possessive. Barcud Goch! Barcud Goch!
I drop the ball.