(During a cricket match, freak sunlight reflected from a supermarket window distracted the players so much they promptly went for tea.)
I am moving, do you hear me? Sun – I play on. Let the bowler of the skies throw you at me, I will hit you for six over the walls and darkness will come. So try again. Who would
catch me out and not burn his fingers. But I am the best batsman in the history of cricket. I will not let you blind me, oh sun, shining like a bright lamp in my eyes.
The field is empty, the others have given up, but I stay in the field of fire. My bat is ready, my wicket is stout and hard to smash. Try then, oh sun, to get me out; if you succeed – my life is at stake, spin and bounce towards me like a comet, as I swing my bat and knock you over the fence and darkness will cover the land.
Behold the new moon comes to the field, falling from the sky like a meteorite. Aimed like a giant bull with silver tendons and glowing eyes, charging me and crashing into my wicket. I am dead. The sun will shine but I will not be here to resume the game of cricket.