a sticky wicket

no wonder that there's never grace
in doing only what's assigned
the course of all that comes to mind
requires not just a simple space
the run-up sets the quickest pace
we're never sure about the kind
of power that makes us all seem blind
but certain that it has its place
no wonder that there are no sights
so wonderful as that final zone
where all of us can find some peace
these are the sorts of summer nights
when we are heated to the bone
and sharpened right down to the crease