Now is September passing through,
The golden days are over, swift they came
With soft expectancy and magic new
Tempting our senses with ephemeral fame.
O, there has been much laughter, much that’s fine
Where flannelled fools have roved, and umpires called
Not Out! And now the darkness sets in other time
To hush the scene which once the wickets ruled.
The night has come, let’s close the echoing bar
Where evenings, after match, good fellowship was all,
But thoughts again will wander to a summer far
Ahead of winter, and to bat and ball.
Now is September passing through
The rusted gates of wind and storm and rain,
The cold is cold, and fires leap anew
Until the cricket season comes again
As come it will, when winter’s chafing hand
Conjures the dreamed-of scores that might-have-been,
When pads will re-emerge, and wickets proudly stand
Once more upon the village and the county green.
And who shall play again? Whose names be on the card,
In some new season, by pavilion door?
Who, too, shall toast with sadness and regard
The bowled September men who’ll play no more?

By Leslie Frewin