for chris
Yellow-brown stain across white
ceiling; grandpa in leather chair
would raise his
pipe to say g’day
we run out to play cricket
at the front. Like tradition
he’d follow and sit, second step
elbows as wide as knees
tap out each change
of bowler, pack fresh leaves and light up
at the crack of a good shot.
Could he see
a future test captain
through those glasses; silent
as the glass
of a commentary box.