You can find poets at every unexpected places..

The mellow sound of bat on ball
The wherewithal to enthral
On feather bed or fiery track
Talent far above the pack
All on display at a glance
As Colin Cowdrey took his stance.

His style was gentle, full of grace
Delicate as Flemish lace
When a troubling ball came down
Fair caressed it all around
Some were hit, a few let pass
In Cowdrey’s cricketing master-class.

With speed or spin, sharp eyes could see
The blade of grass where the ball would be
And to follow – swift and sure
A stroke to excite the connoisseur
Such memories still linger on
So long after the day has gone.

Firm wrists to coax the ball away
To all parts of close of play
A push for one, sometimes a pair
Three for a cut to backward of square
And – hear the full-throated roar –
A dazzling cover drive for four.

Now, he out; no more shall we see
That brand of Cowdrey Mastery
A style so easy, so unhurried
So very English, so unflurried
The master with a Corinthian touch
To Whom victory matter – but not that much.

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