Into the Summer’s Own, the Cowbridge Men (with apologies to Sir Henry Newbolt).

They gather at the crease with morn’s first golden glow,  In Cowbridge green, the sign of hope, their colours proudly show;  For in that shade of living earth, of promise ever true,  The spirit of renewal shines, each season born anew.

O’er rolling Welsh green turf they tread, in steady, measured stride,  With bat and ball and steadfast will, side by side they bide.

 Through April’s early dew to August’s lingering light,  They bore the willow’s weight of hope from dawn until the night.

Recall the opening stand, two souls in perfect rhyme,  The captain’s stroke, the partner’s drive, in rhythm and in time.

 And later still, when stump or swing would waver in the heat,  A leaping catch, a deft return—each heartbeat found its beat.

When bowlers flew with seam and spin, each fielder keenly stayed,  No chance was lost, no ball unclaimed, no moment left unplayed.

 The pitch became a battlefield, the ball their trusty sword,  Each run a skirmish bravely won, each wicket fiercely scored.

And cheers would rise like summer wind, long over green expanse,  As wickets fell and victories came to Cowbridge’s gallant stance.

 Yet not alone the triumph’s taste defines the season’s song,  But how they faced the test of play, kept spirits firm and strong.

For in each setback, still they grew, as seasons turn the field,  The green of Cowbridge taught them all: to bend, but never yield.

 And on the final day, when hearts were taut with strain,  No bat was raised, no ball was bowled—the heavens called the rain.

A kindly hand, a gift from Fate, divine in gentle sway,  Promotion crowned the gallant men, and lit their green array.

 So let the story ever run of Cowbridge brave and true,  Whose courage, toil, and steadfast faith the fickle fates did view.

For those who wore the Cowbridge green in twenty-twenty-five,  Found providence, renewal, hope—the summer kept alive.

by Michael Fogg