A STRANGE RADIANCE

A strange radiance fills the room
and I wake up.  It is the moon,
projecting a rectangle of silver
against the wall.  The radio’s on – still –
and as sleep recedes I register
the situation: Collingwood out, England 9 down
with a handful of overs to go in the game.  
Anderson and Panesar are in,
Siddle and Hauritz bowling.  Anderson hits
I think Siddle for 4 and there’s a huge cheer:
England are in front, Australia must bat
again to win, and time’s running out.
After each ball where a wicket doesn’t fall
the Welsh crowd bays with joy.  The English
commentators’ voices are taut with excitement
and Jim Maxwell’s Australian accent
is slowly growing resigned 
to what, it seems, will no longer be a famous Aussie victory.
In desperation Ponting yanks off Siddle, brings on North –
not a regular bowler – could this be the masterstroke?
Or a hunch leading nowhere?  Ball after ball
the rousing cheers indicate not much has happened
as Jonathan Agnew describes
a gentle prod down the pitch, a leave outside off stump.
Each ball, each minute that passes
lengthens the distance between pier and boat
for the desperate Australians: soon the gap
will be impossible to jump.  The English physio
appears on the field, an act of gamesmanship;
Ponting yells at him to go –
he’s wasting time – and Anderson, to his credit,
waves him away too.  Play resumes.  The commentators 
check their watches, check them again, then whisper,
hardly daring to believe:  “I think 
that’s it, I think England have escaped.”
Anderson edges through point for a single:
the crowd roars as if he’s hit a six.
A brief confabulation on the pitch
and hands are being shaken: it’s over, 
the match is drawn – what a show
of defiance by the English lower order;
what a deflation for the tired Australians
who did everything to win the game
but couldn’t get across the line.  The crowd is singing –
almighty waves of sound 
that reverberate through this tiny cabin
then yield to the softer roaring
of water pouring across cobbles
as I switch the thing off.

The moon has shifted, no longer coming through the window
it must be shining on the roof, the river sighing like a breeze
I write this poem, then try and get back to sleep.
A rooster is crowing on the other side.
O Morpheus, Muse, whoever,
grant me one good hour of sleep before I must rise.


Brian



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