Bradman : ( The Legend )

Sepia-tinted were our memories of those summers
just before the War,sounds of those childhood days
like half-remembered nursery rhymes were snatched
from us at the coming of the Hellfire and its roar
of the Heinkel and Messerschmitt;

A solitary green and gold cap gleamed with an aura
of invincibility as animated Movietone crowds roared
as the ball soared again and again,making scoreboards
flicker in black & white with streams of harsh cadences
from a battle-hardened bat,that echoed across verdant
pastures moistened by the dew of legends,at Old Trafford,
Headingley and Trent Bridge;

An unostentatious eminence simmering in the cauldron
of confrontation at the Oval,a peerless mastery of hostile
bowling denying,so often,too often the Lions their spoils
on the hallowed turf at Lord’s,where a solitary green and
gold cap gleamed with an aura that made the ball soar again
and again and made those summers rekindle our childhoods
and their half-remembered nursery rhymes.

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