The Clop

The Clop,so quintessential,so afternoon earl gray tea,so crisp ,so washing powder white.

The Clop reverberating through the Cornish idyll,lifted high and skyward ,supported by the eye's of hundreds baying for the blood of the Willows accomplice, and the willow's demise.
Since high noon the striking willow ,artistically,gracefully punishing the enemy lines, from a spot so sweet, so sought.so unknown to the novice ,and apprentice bat.

Long summer starched loam blends together with the  lime Dover chalk, rising high from beneath  spiked heels as they grind for sure purchase to dart the green beige chain, towards the next century and beyond.

Above the oval vista,the polish and buff twirls among the chuff and finch, burning crimson against the Pavilions whitewashed balustrade, heading unconcerned ,unaware of it's importance, now striving for the glorious four.

The Windmills sails,so still, puffing in frustration watching his prime picked cherry, mirror polished delivered with such care and sly Clopped and boundary bound.The distant deep square leg lunging forward for the catch it position,  the glory dive the  mowed lawn roll,and compulsory sky high toss.

The crimson orb,spinning,revolving clawing every inch  through the pollen filled air  but alas for the batsmans hearty try momentum is lost, and the boundary four a dream gone by, a dream smashed by the grasping enemy hand stinging from the sweet cherries kiss, a kiss to savior the last dance kiss.

What a roar,what a cheer,what  controlled rejoicing from the home gentlemen crowd there bated breath released in great waves of applause and celebration, now watching the away players and the one sided disappointment on the opposing crowds faces has they turn from sun, to thunder then the showered leafy droop.

Wrestling, manly cuddles,huggles and pat back slaps,The windmills relief as his sails inflate once more knowing he has become the hero of the day,the man of the match,first in line for the Trophy hold.

Cream tea china ching's, veranda wives daintily applaud all the work of there pure white adored, hand creased and pressed into what they are at that moment triumphant, then quickly back to the gossip of the day, woman's institute business and who has made the  jam scone of scones. 

A lonely fellow stands silent in the center of all the commotion, his wounded willow tucked tight beneath his failed right arm,his head bows as the umpires arm falls to his side like the Guillotines final decision on the neck holding the responsibility of all.At the pace of a slow clap he walks,every blade of grass, every insect, every lace hole atop his grass stained boot is counted over and over again.He imagines a slow Sunday morning stroll from the village newsagents carrying a crisp white newspaper under his arm to protect him from the jubilant jeers of the opposing crowd.

He raises his head,the pavilion beckons to swallow him whole a welcome escape from the summer crowd heat  the captains doffed head ,and the score board click. A sad step through the creaky picket gate,a good will tap on the hand of the incoming ,I can do better player then the batsman metamorphosis's into the windmills  fluffy rabbit  and as if by magic disappears into a deep top hat named the hutch, till next Sunday's game, the next four, and the next sweet spot clop.

                                                                               COPYRIGHT 2011