“We’ve discovered Superman’s address, and got to the bottom
of the wing-beat rate a beetle needs to stay dry in the rain,
all of which brings to mind the last stand of a certain man
on this very field, what, sixteen years since, is it Greg?
You’ll remember Amit’s aztec gaze, how he’d play
from a firm back foot, pick his point above your arm,
directing when to kick your wrist and place the pitch, swatting
shots off like dizzy moths – something of the battling mantis
in his awkward height, a bored elegance addressed
by the long circles of his arms. Back home, of course,
he’s thought a god, and there always was an uncanniness,
a gift for timing, drawing luck – the rain, like now,
sometimes came with his beckoning, and that feast of charms
rattling about his neck, his slightly eerie victory dance
scuffing dust in geometric shapes, setting a hex
along his crease… The fast bowler from the islands
faced him here in ‘86, a brutal little ball of a man
with a witchunter’s ardent, direct line. A sad day for sport
when the delivery caught Amit short, bouncing up to touch
his chin, the sweet spot of a perfect uppercut. Down he went,
and never really came around, but you’ll remember, Greg,
the swarm of unlikely blood-coloured butterflies
that descended on the pitch, a couple of which can often
be seen this time of year, out there now, batting between the drops.’