cricket on the village green

people playing cricket on green grass field
Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on

The thwack of willow on wood

Echoes dull, through the summer air

As children squeal and wives will clap

Over English tea and sandwich triangles,

Sat upon those tartan picnic rugs.

The women look so wealthy as they cheer

For men in whites, running stump to stump,

A gentlemen’s sport played in cableknit jumpers,

With grass stains on knees

That will be soaked away soon,

As cold beers are swallowed in cricket club houses.

I live on the edge of a lovely green park and during the summer it is used for all sorts of activities. There are tennis courts that are always busy and a Junior Parkrun takes place every Sunday morning.

But one of my favourite things about the park is the cricket that is played all Saturday afternoon. There is something so quintessentially English about that sound of the ball hitting the bat and the slightly restrained clapping of the spectators.

I used to go to the cricket with a friend of the family when I was about seven. I used to love the vibe of the club house, with the women in beautiful summer dresses serving tea and sandwiches as we played on the edge of the green.

These summer days are so special and I know that it will only be a matter of time before the hot weather is blown away and the greens turn to the golden browns and reds of autumn. Until then, I will enjoy those endless summer afternoons of tennis and cricket and running. Autumn will bring its own joys in the form of hot water bottles and crochet blankets to read under.

Much Love

Rachel xx

coffee shop on a hot day

coffee shop
Photo by Afta Putta Gunawan on

Crowds of shoppers willingly spill out

Onto a pavement that’s scorched and sticky,

Summertime outfits showing off skin

Slick with sweat, reflective eyes

As polarised sunglasses stare back at me.

The queue snakes in to baristas

Looking hassled, pen thrust in a ponytail

As she takes our order without looking up,

The coffee machine hisses in protest,

Standing as one with the tired employee,

‘Surely it’s too hot for lattes today?’

And so we order creamy drinks, filled to the brim

With ice cubes clunking against plastic cups,

We knock back iced teas and nibble at muffins,

Dreaming of drinking cocktails instead,

Away from this shopping mall, on a beach somewhere

Under a parasol and listening to waves

Crashing in rhythmically, onto the sand.


selective focus photo of wildflowers
Photo by Bruno Abdiel on

The purple flowers wind their way

Around the washing pole, biting at

The bright white sheets flapping in the breeze.

Uncontrolled they’ll eat the garden

Manicured last year, and now

It’s swamped with such expert ease.

She pulls them up with rubber gloves

Watching as they spring up faster than

She can pull the roots in muddy clumps

Neat only while she’s praying, pulling on her knees.

My garden is an absolute hell hole and I have no idea what to do with it. I have never been taught how to garden, and if I’m being honest, between keeping the inside of the flat tidy, and doing marking and planning for work, I’m feeling a bit too lazy to deal with it.

When we moved back in, the tenant had really let it go and I did a great job pulling up all the brambles. And that was where it ended.

One day, I’m going to get myself to Homebase and buy pots and gravel and flowers and I will have a beautiful little garden. But for now, I’ll just have to enjoy the wildflowers that are strangling everything around them.

Much Love

Rachel xx

a summer afternoon on the council estate

close up photo of man cooking meat
Photo by Min An on

The hoses snake from kitchen windows as the kids

Squeal with stunned delight as freezing water hits

Their naked bodies running through the fingers of

Sunlight, strong and scorching on their skin.

The pungent smell of marijuana mixes with

The barbecues that hiss and fizzle

As the children dart between the grown up men,

Holding prongs and drinking beer, pretending

It is them who pulled together meals for all

While tired wives, hide in kitchens chopping up

The salad and the rolls and opening the bags of chips.

A dog will howl somewhere, desperate for the men

To put down beers and take up leads,

A walk down by the river, away from this,

This constant noise that echoes round our bubble,

Our grubby grey estate, where no one ever leaves,

We all just drink and smoke and fuck

Away our lives in heated balmy days…