requires years of practice. My boy,

old enough now to develop

 

a consistent run up, ball half

polished half scuffed, fingers each side

 

of the seam. I could learn about

rhythm, balance – his arms coiled, eyes

 

on the wicket, full drive through then

ease, that gentle angling away.

 

For now, he returns to me

taller, famished, his hands stained red.