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Spun Out

The bowler has it now, spun and thrown to the sun,

to fall to a practised hand: turning, turning.

When he bends to run he sees nothing but the flight

of a ball he has yet to bowl; sees it sear from the hand,

all swept light and then swerve and dip, the seam proud,

tearing at the earth, the off-stump uprooted, spun back,

the long follow-through, the caps thrown in joy.

How it would be, if the mind would clear, the fingers unlock.

How it is when it does not, the mind a pincer on the body.

How it is now, fingers in spasm, the dream running out the arm

2 thoughts to “Spun Out”

  1. Hi John, i keep seeing Warne’s first wicket, at Lord’s I think: Mike Gatting. Not that this poem is about that, however..It is now…I like the feeling of suspension, how Cricket is a series of moments ‘in suspension’ a waiting…

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