[edit] To Neville Cardus

Daily we entered through the gates of Grace,
Passed in a step a thousand miles beyond
The city's dust and Europe's carewarn face,
Joining a crowd whose folly was their bond:
Folly that might be wisdom in disguise,
Choosing the noble nothing of a game,

For well we knew what spectres would arise
When, as the wickets fell, the newsboys came;
From penny chapters of Apocalypse,
While Hammond built a citadel of runs,
We knew our summer heralded eclipse
And heard the distant rumble of the guns.

Days in the sun we cherished as they fled
Though shadows fell from aircraft overhead.