Appeal

I’d just begun the ironing when
I caught him through the window:
four or five medium paces then
a longer one planting his left foot
firmly on to the pavement,
right arm swinging, pendulum limbed.
Street theatre ballet, was it? Cricket!
Bowling, of course, he pulled himself up
with a few short steps then carried on to school.
Next day he was there again,
I just happened to be looking his way.
It was raining hard but that didn’t stop play,
only his blonde hair wasn’t blown back,
but clung tight to his scalp,
like the shirt to his chest. Some days
he moved with a slower grace,
his hands joined in a mimic of prayer
before parting and spinning away.
I’d watched him bowl four or five overs, in all,
when one Friday he released the imaginary ball
and turned to my window, arms outstretched,
mouthing Howzat! I shook
my head, I almost burnt my fingers.