Dear Editor,

The following is a poem in honour of my childhood hero, Michael Holding:

You approached the wicket as smooth as a gazelle in Africa,

You were floating, you were gliding,

Nobody could hear you,

Whispering death

As you ruined the lives of the best batsmen of your era,

Mercilessly.

I saw stumps flying as you kicked the air in frustration,

A bad umpiring decision?

You were the best in class,

A single malt, faster than greased lightning,

And posed an existential threat to opponents all over the world.

A poet once wrote that a thing of beauty is a joy forever,

And you were a wild flower

Blooming alone in the Garden of Eden.

You are decades older now, my black, soul brother

And retired from active duty, but,

My friend, you see, memory never ages.

I turn the pages of time

And I see a wild cat, a fast bowler in his prime:

The speed, accuracy, consistency

And reflexes of a natural athlete.

After all, you were a sprinter, a panther on the prowl,

Hunting for blood, sweat, and tears.

Poetry in motion

A Rolls-Royce among pace bowlers.

You saw the fear of extinction in the eyes of opponents,

You smelt the fear of destruction in the sweat on their brow from a mile away.

A Caribbean islander from Jamaica,

You played in the heart and soul of Lords, the mecca of world cricket.

And now, of course, a phoenix rises from the ashes and dust of history

And we bow in silence to celebrate you, Mikey.

History sighs and a poet remembers his childhood hero

With tears of joy in his eyes.

Dr Archan Mehta

Freelance writer

Poet, India

archanm@hotmail.com