This poem harks back to the days when John Arlott was the voice of cricket. A different age, both in cricket and in society generally. It endeavours to evoke those times. It is followed by an acknowledgement to the person to whom I am indebted for the title, which was the sole inspiration for the poem.

On hearing the first Arlott in spring,

A sound, mellifluous, with a familiar ring.

Now, in the memory only, and but a trace.

Yet it makes the world a more familiar place.

Familiar as the smell of a smoking cigar

In times when Dylan played acoustic guitar,

Smoked by farmers where the Atkinson is now

As they watched Bill Alley mopping his brow.

Times when beer was sold from a tent

And Peter Wight scored two hundred against Kent.

Times when we knew Beijing as Peking

And each year I awaited the first Arlott in spring.

On hearing the first Arlott in spring

The heart would pump and take wing.

In cricket’s true voice my senses embroiled

Like the smell of cut grass, and a bat linseed oiled.

Times when stewards ruled with a fearsome bark

And Donald Soper could be heard in Hyde Park.

Umpires bent double in their long white coats

And ‘sledging’ consisted of humorous quotes.

Times when TMS was on Programme the Third

And the match faded out if you moved or stirred.

Days when an equinox, anticipation would bring

As each year I awaited the first Arlott in spring.

On hearing the first Arlott in spring

Reaching the gate on St James made me feel like a king.

“Scorecard! Scorecard!”, around the ground a familiar cry.

Or buy off the printer, the last man’s ink not dry.

Times when cricket started on Wednesday and Saturday

And you knew what to do when planning your holiday.

A week in Weston and a week in Bath.

And through each summer, fixtures walked a rational path.

Now as the world and cricket my thoughts disturb,

Living in an age verging on the absurd –

To drift into sleep I just think of one thing,

The day I heard my first Arlott in spring.

First published on grockles.com in 2018. The inspiration for this poem came entirely from the title, which is not mine. It was provided by another online poster, posting under the name Loyal of Lhasa, to whom I am indebted, for without the inspiration generated by Loyal of Lhasa’s title, itself inspired by Frederick Delius, this poem would never have been written.

Farmer White