Cricket on the village green

by Angela Prew

Tanned arms, strong
from lifting bales, crab pots
and hods of bricks,
these men, white trousered
Sunday cricketers
were once the boys
I taught.
I knew them well,
the noisy, naughty, troubled
and troublesome lads,
some well-behaved and studious
now grown.Their children,
carbon copies of those boys,
chase each other, shouting,
up and down the pitch.
Their wives, those girls
I also knew once, long ago,
offer tea, home-made buns
and gossip.
The years have robbed me
of their names
but a sudden flash
of recognition
takes me by surprise
and time rolls back.

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