I’d just started the ironing when

I caught him through the window:

four, five paces then a longer one planting

his left foot firmly on to the pavement

as his right arm swung over - pendulum limbed.

Street theatre or ballet rehearsal. Cricket!

He was bowling, of course and pulled himself up

with a few short steps then carried on to school.

Next day he was there again,

I just happened to be at the window.

It was raining hard but he didn’t stop play,

only his blonde hair wasn’t blown back

any more, 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. Spin.

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 How’s That!

I shook my head and almost burnt

my fingers on the iron. I’d never thought

to look and see what he saw.