Looking across the frosty field where, in summer, cricket is played.

Drinking hot cappuccino in the cold, pondering the future.

Warm liquid hits my throat as a chill wind hits my cheek.

Does brightness betray bleakness, or will bleak become bright?

The field before me, once abuzz with play, now lies empty

Save for crows, scavenging like Poe’s ravens.

Will it thrive once more, or have we now lost the crucial match?