The Mon by Liam Grimshaw 
A rare toss won, the home team ‘mon’, to bat he did elect.
Fiercely hot, first ball a dot.
The scene it had been set.
An amphitheater of mills and beer, not cypresses and togas.
A spectacle still, batsmen thrill, bowlers toiling through the overs.
An early blow, disrupts the flow, the partnership is broken.
Out strolls ‘the mon’, five overs gone, a beast they have awoken.
He settles in with textbook vim, delightful on the eye.
His collar cocked, a true peacock, a wide and then a bye.
A ball dragged down that drew a frown, was met with sheer disdain.
Six runs again, ‘the mon’ of men, irresistible in this vein.
Appreciation from the fans, a full collection tray.
One hundred next, the fieldsmen vexed, onward without delay.
Like masters long since gone before, his willlow is his brush.
He cuts and sweeps with pure panache, for him there is no rush.
His helmet drenched in sweat and grime, is now swapped for a cap.
The baggy green, streamlined and clean, each stroke emits a clap.
On ninety four a mighty score, ‘the mon’ has found himself.
But not for long, don’t get me wrong, it’s not good for your health.
Skipping down pride of the town, it’s poetry in motion.
Six of the best, you know the rest, timing the secret potion.
Third of the year, in second gear, the best is yet to come.
Forty nine more, the locals roar, the Worsley Cup is won.