The mower’s hum has ceased to play,
Its stripes still fresh in morning grey.
Where willow cracks and leather sings,
The day unfolds on feathered wings.

The pub spills laughter through its frame,
With tankards raised and tales the same.
While bunting flutters, bold and bright,
In marigold and red and white.

A dog lies sprawled beneath the seat,
Its ears half-lifted at the heat.
As wickets fall and fielders’ slide,
Their whites a blur in summer’s stride.

The air is thick with grassy bloom,
And elderflower’s sweet perfume.
A hush beneath the hedgerow’s shade,
Where secrets in the daisies fade.

The score is chalked on slate once black,
A pint is raised, the sun leans back.
And time, for once, forgets to race
In this small, sunlit village place.

A cry of “Howzat!” breaks the hush,
The fielders halt, their cheeks a flush.
The batsman waits, his stance grown still,
As silence wraps the village hill.

The umpire lifts a steady hand,
A signal drawn from ancient strand.
No need for words, no need to rush,
Just one raised finger through the hush.

The batsman nods, his fate now sealed,
He turns and walks across the field.
No anger shown, no boast, no fuss,
Just pride and dust and quiet trust.

The crowd exhales, the scoreboard ticks,
A child rolls daisies near the sticks.
And in that pause, the game resumes,
With sun and scent and summer tunes.

As dusk draws near the game now ends,
Stumps are drawn, and foes are friends.

The field lies still, the echoes fade,
A golden hush on green parade.

Mike Luff

Creative Writing Group.

                                                                                                       108, Barmouth                               

                                                                                                       Perivale,

                                                                                                       Middlesex,

                                                                                                       England.

                                                                                                       Tuesday 20th July 1954

Liebe Marta und Friedrich,

Wie geht's Dir? Gut, ich hoffe. June and I are really looking forward  to seeing you and your growing family this Summer. We already have our itinerary and have bought our boat and train tickets. It's only two weeks before we arrive!

It's been a whole year since our last trip to Bad Bellingen. And we still talk about it all . It was my first return to my father's birthplace bringing with me my beautiful new wife. Do you remember? 

We came on the train from Koln- the stopping train that goes to Basel in Switzerland. The little black and white timbered station was exactly as I recalled  from years gone by when both our lives were very different. 

There was no one there to greet us so June and I decided to make our own way up to the market square and rest awhile. The sun beat down on our backs. It was a welcome relief to sit in the shade and taste the spa water from the fountain. All  was eerily quiet.  Just as we were wondering what to do next , some local children peered around the corner. Curiosity finally gave way to bravado as they retorted ' What are you doing in our village?'

I explained in my self-taught German that we had been on a long journey. I was a 'Vogel' and the second son of Karl Engelbert Vogel who had been born in the village. We  were looking for the Shropp family. 'Of course, everyone is up in the vineyards gathering in the harvest! We can help' they shouted as they enthusiastically scampered off.

We caught our breathe and waited excitedly for help to arrive. It wasn't long before we saw you, Marta, laughing as you recognised us from afar. Running down the fields came Friedrich, and the three children Peter, Dieter and Marita. Maybe it was my accent or the clothes we were wearing but the children had reported that 'the Americans have arrived'! Then reunited with you all, it was as if we had never been parted.

June has been learning a little German so that she can chat to the children. She is bringing some special gifts for them from the famous toyshop 'Hamley's of London'. She is longing to give Marita her present as she knows how much she loves cats. It's a glove puppet in the shape of a cat with emerald, green eyes and long black whiskers.

My wife says to tell you that she has put on a little weight since last year. She knows how concerned everyone was and how you tried to feed her up with hearty country dishes. Hopefully time spent in the wonderful Black Forest will improve her health. As a city girl and a Londoner , at that, she has still not quite recovered from that midnight call 

of nature-only to discover your flock of geese herded into the same outbuilding as the toilet!

Please write if there is anything we can bring you from England. God willing, we shall arrive by train at midday on Monday 2nd August.

Until then, we send you our warmest heartfelt wishes, your Cousin Laurie and my wife June.