Daily we become the sepulchres of our younger selves,
Our minds are morgues stuffed with minutes, hours
Turning to ash or rotting, as one day our flesh does.
You had a goodish spell, as such things go,
And must therefore have collected your fair share of corpses,
Yet Freddy, though I never saw you hurl the ball
With silken viciousness, across the shining space of twenty-two yards
I'm still allowed a silent space of tears, am I not?
Had you lived a thousand years prior to your day,
You'd probably have dealt in steel, and be sung of by bards,
But a glimmering in the post-war twilight was your lot,
And that you did well, though, later, in a poorer world,
You'd say you did not know what went on out there anymore. And now you
Are unmade. Someday soon, Freddy, the outswinger will be too.
Frederick Sewards Trueman - 06/02/1931-01/07/2006
