Pitch

On the cricket field, the pitch lies low,
A strip of earth where fortunes flow,
Hardened by sun and stubborn rain,
It tests the bat, it guards the strain.

The bowler’s arm swings like a pendulum’s sigh,
Releasing leather that seeks to pry,
Through seam and swing, through spin and flight,
It whispers secrets in the fading light.

A batsman reads the subtle tilt,
Adjusts his stance, his hopes, his guilt,
Each bounce a question, each reply a test,
On this thin stage where champions quest.

When twilight drapes the stands in grey,
The pitch still hums in quiet sway—
A silent stage where dreams are cast,
Echoing long beyond the last.