Standing Howell oval on a summer’s day.
I watch with praise as the cricket gets under way.
The bowler walks back to his mark.
Depending on his style, he begins with a march.
He ups the pace & starts with a fast bowlers face.
Towards the stumps like he is running into a fight,
Then with & almighty jump he takes flight.
Twisting side ways.
He winds it up like a clock at twelve o’clock.
Like a clock that chimes as the front foot he bangs down,
His foot, part of it just behind the front line.
The little red ball is about to he hurled.
His arm must be straight!
The seam will sit upright & gun barrel straight.
Choosing the line, he might adjust the fingers to produce swing.
The batsman down the other end does not have much time.
Half a second if the bowlers fast.
Ti's an art this bowling.
It takes real heart.
His captain is clapping I want the ball on the spot.
It’s just the first over.
Six dots in the book the opening batsman is only taking a look.
Being the spectator a bowler must try.
To entice me over to the place I love best.
I stand directly behind his shoulder at the white picket fence.
This will encourage him to be a little bolder.
Down to long on he walks to field.
To ponder the next over,
Back to mark his hurries with haste.
With thoughts of where the ball he would paste.
Steam appears from the ears, like he is in a bull in the ring!
The next ball goes down and the stumps are rattled.
Howzat!!!!
Then bowlers arm sees the batsman off like he is herding cattle.