March is the groundsman's month:
Rolling the first cut into the pitch
Marking out the boundaries,
Preparing the run ups for bowling,
Tidying up the batsman's crease
Sowing seed and feeding the loam.

April is not the cruellest month for cricket
The County Championship matches begin
Last season's top notch batsman is now
Captain. The bowlers are chomping at the 
Bit. Some new faces and the old irregulars
Pretending to be blasé, whilst caring mightily.
Not to care is just not cricket's the unspoken
Refrain. And then there's old John at silly-mid-on,
His final season. Though his knees need replacing
He squats, match upon match,
Close enough to the batsman to smell him.

The season undulates like northern seasons do
Four seasons in a day, showers and sun, spin
And stumping. When the nights start drawing in,
and his eyes aren't as good as they were,
John thinks about the song:
When an old cricketer leaves the crease.
He doesn't cry, he doesn't swear,
Just remembers, he was there.