At grandpa’s (with my tubby cousin)

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. 

 

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