Not Out
by N. McMullin
Facing.
The Bowler,
Streaks in.
Long limbed,
Powerful.
With intent, he glares at me.
Sweating.
Under my helmet.
I tap my bat.
Raised.
Ready.
Fixated on the Bowler’s hand.
An Umpire,
Yawns behind,
Darkened sunglasses.
Bored. Daydreaming.
A seagull cries
From the boundary.
The red ball,
Careers down.
An inside edge.
Caught by the Keeper.
They call for it.
HOWZAT!
The Umpire.
Stands motionless.
I feign innocence.
He hasn’t heard it.
No finger is raised.
And I silently thank the seagull.
Great poem!
Absolutely love it, my cricketing grandsons would adore this. Thank you