Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter

Life, Poetry, Sport


I think I miss an imagined version
Of cricket, where there are no failures
Nor unkind words, where there is no
Permanent core of self-doubt
Writhing around my heart, and where
Team bonds are forever strong.

It doesn’t exist, of course, this
Perfect model of the game I used
To love, where to pick up a ball in
January to start hardening my hands
Was as natural an act as breathing,
So I stand at the boundary and dream.

R 27/05/2023 18:37

Got up this morning, and within thirty minutes – ping – my back had gone into spasm for the first time in at least 6 months. I had bought a TENS machine for my dodgy shoulder, and the ever-practical M said I should try it on my back. It helps, and I have become addicted to it, though that doesn’t stop it making me miserable as hell.

And then I read about ITV’s Emily Morgan dying at the age of 45, and watching a one-legged lad dancing an amazing dance on BGT (don’t judge me – M’s home-made Saturday night pizza brings with it populist TV), and cursed myself for being so engrossed in my own minor troubles. The world is a frightening and unjust place, and I need to push on to make the most of it while I still can.

I sometimes can’t reconcile “My god is not a vengeful god,” a line from Dead Men, with reality. We seem to be surrounded by nothing but vengeful gods.

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