In Competition No. 2903 you were invited to supply a poem incorporating a dozen cricketing terms. English poets love cricket: Housman, Betjeman, Chesterton and Sassoon all wrote about the game. And then, of course, there is Harold Pinter, who encapsulated it so beautifully in two lines:

I saw Len Hutton in his prime,
Another time, another time.

 
I admired P.C. Parrish’s clever poem in the opaque modernist style of Edith Sitwell. Tim Raikes, Peter Goulding, Nick Hodgson and Rosemary Kirk also stood out in a large and impressive field. The winners earn £25 apiece. Brian Allgar takes £30.

My wife reminds me of a game of cricket:
A splendid sport, but hard to comprehend.
I often feel I’m on a sticky wicket —
Caught out, or stumped, or driven round the bend.
 
And when she starts to eye the heavy roller,
Or pads towards the dreaded daisy-cutter,
I know it’s time to grab my coat and bowler;
‘Must just run out to buy some fags,’ I mutter.
 
The day we met, she truly bowled me over,
Eyelashes batting, tempting me to sin.
I made my pitch; she acquiesced; I drove her
To find a featherbed and bang it in.
 
My long-legged love declares that I’m her third man,
All three of us — a silly point — called ‘Patrick’,
And though she sometimes finds me an absurd man,
She says it’s thanks to me she scored her hat-trick.
Brian Allgar
 
Harry was a villain and a very crafty crook
Whose henchman, Basher, wasn’t bright (he’d never read a book)
But, being rough, could pack a punch and knock a fellow out,
Hence Harry found him helpful as a fit and fearsome lout.
 
Now Donna was a dolly and the love of Harry’s life,
He promised her the world if she’d agree to be his wife,
And Donna said she’d gladly wed as long as he agreed
To rob a bank and furnish her with all she’d ever need.
 
So Harry with his henchman did as Donna said they ought
But failed to net sufficient cash and soon were justly caught,
And yet, despite the charge, the trial was nothing but a fudge,
Since Harry and his henchman had enough to bribe the judge.
 
Notwithstanding his appeal poor Harry lost his grip
On Donna who, in anger, gave her lover-boy the slip.
The brief romance was over and, deciding to retire,
He turned religious, saw the light and joined a chapel choir.
Alan Millard
 
Some silly point of law, Jim seemed to think,
Unfairly blocked the course of his appeal.
Now out on bail he joined me for a drink,
Declining my suggestion of a meal,
Preferring six or seven pints of lager.
So in the snug bar of The Dog and Duck
I heard at length the whole disgraceful saga,
Ascribed by him, of course, to rotten luck.
A third man in his partnership was caught
Out not declaring imports from Hong Kong,
And Jim himself, the customs people thought,
Colluded and was therefore in the wrong.
‘Those imports? Oh, some Chinese box of tricks.
One gathers it’s a type of vacuum pump
That’s sold in millions and is meant to fix
The problem of a flattened middle stump.’
Hugh King
 
When young Dot Ball came into bloom
As maidens ever do, sir,
Wise folk declared, ‘She’ll drive to doom
Any lad that woos her.’
And so it proved — a single glance
From eyes of cobalt blue
Could in its turn dismiss, entrance,
Or cut a man in two.
New suitors came from far and wide
All eager for the test:
She swept the minor ones aside
And ground to dust the rest.
With hope run out there’d ever be
An eligible male,
Dot saw the light of chastity
And took the good Lord’s veil.
W.J. Webster
 
The twelfth man was the last one through the gate.
Tail enders, sticky dogs who came too late,
Stodgers and stonewallers, none was a peach.
She kept a paddle sweep within her reach,
They needed discipline, slice, slash and cut.
The asking rate is good for whipping butt.
‘All out’. Her clients meekly slip away.
It’s been a busy and a well-paid day.
She’s made a ton of lolly. Time for tea.
They’ve had their innings and now, she is free.
Fiona Pitt-Kethley
 
Old Dolly keeps on gardening
Though in her nervous nineties,
I wait for her to wrong-foot me,
Sunbathing in my scanties.
 
Hard work I find has no appeal
So weeds are taking over;
I am no daisy-cutter, dears,
Nor gouger out of clover.
 
I hate to duck my duty but
I’m stumped, I’m in a quandary:
She’s fallen. Has she had a stroke
Beyond my garden boundary?
Alanna Blake

No. 2905: I CAN SEE A RAINBOW

You are invited to submit a sonnet whose lines begin with the letters R,O,Y,G,B,I,V,V,I,B,G,Y,O,R, in that order. Please email entries to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 1 July.