Imran Khan

At Edgebaston did Imran Khan,
A stately cricket game decree,
Where Alf, the wicket-keeper, ran,
Past footholes made by bowler man,
Down to the boundary.

So half a mile of fertile ground,
With rope and seats was girdled round,
And there was wicket bright with well-shorn grass,
Where stood stumps cut round from trees,
And here a pavillion bedecked with brass,
Enfolding sots who'd paid their fees.

But oh! that deep mid-wicket which slanted
Down the green hill athwart the extra-cover!
A savage place! as bumpy and enchanted,
As e'er beneath the waning light was haunted,
By Imran wailing for a maiden over!
And from the gully, with ceaseless toil unyielding,
As if the slips in grass-stained whites were fielding,
A mighty appeal momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst,
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding bail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the batsman's flail:
And 'mid these dancing fielders at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred finger.
To dressing room - a swift retreat,
Cross outfield scuttled batsman ran,
Past footholes made by bowler man,
And sank in shame to lifeless seat,
And 'mid this tumult Imran heard the score;
Supporters' voices demanding more!

The shadow of this home of cricket,
Floated midway on the square;
Where was heard the break of wicket,
From the grandstand; by all there.
It was a yorker of rare device,
The man dismissed had run but twice!

A pundit with his dulcet tones,
On the airwaves, read the score:
It was an abysmal card,
At the numbers he looked hard,
Sighing at the mess he saw.
Could I revive within me
His sympathy and song,
To outside leg stump 'twould spin me,
That with strokes both bold and long,
I would hit those shots in air,
That sunny pitch! Champagne on ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, "Howzat! Howzat!"
"His flashing eyes, his wide-brimmed hat!"
Watch the batsmen crossing thrice,
And close your eyes with trepid fear,
For Imran who had lured them here,
Had turned it into Paradise.