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