By Edward Thomas

The flowers left thick at nightfall in the wood
This Eastertide call into mind the men,
Now far from home, who, with their sweethearts, should
Have gathered them and will do never again.

When the Australians played a tour match against Warwickshire at Edgbaston in 1961 their bowling attack included Quick, who, as a slow left-armer, was far from quick, and Gaunt, who, as a strapping fast bowler, was far from Gaunt.

by John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Dulce et Decorum est. (Wilfred Owen)

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's, sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud,
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

They. (Siegfried Sassoon)

The Bishop tells us: 'When the boys come back
'They will not be the same; for they'll have fought
'In a just cause: they lead the last attack
'On Anti-Christ; their comrades' blood has bought
'New right to breed an honourable race,
'They have challenged Death and dared him face to face.'

'We're none of us the same!' the boys reply.
'For George lost both his legs; and Bill's stone blind;
'Poor Jim's shot through the lungs and like to die;
'And Bert's gone syphilitic: you'll not find
'A chap who's served that hasn't found some change.
'And the Bishop said: 'The ways of God are strange!'

There's a Mike Gatting lookalike sitting at a corner table at Hilton Park services.

At least I think it's a lookalike. It is a colossal breakfast he's tucking into.

Next month cricket writers from all over the country will gather to hold a "wake for county cricket coverage" in newspapers up and down the land.

The event has been prompted by the "collapse in coverage" of the county game, significantly from the traditional mainstays - The Times and Daily Telegraph - as well as other nationals and many regional papers.

The gathering will be an affectionate one but also tinged with deep sadness. Not just in harsh, practical terms as many cricket writers lose work and also contact with colleagues they have dealt with during summers over many years, but with respect to the diminishing profile of the great institution that is county cricket. Most county cricket reporters love the game and care for it deeply.

Cricket-reporting is perceived as a genteel business and a delight. For a long time it was the former and it still, at times, can be the latter. But in recent years press-boxes at county grounds have been increasingly full of anxiety, disillusionment and bad news as the national papers dispatch fewer correspondents and fewer local papers staff games.

That many of the country's most experienced and astute cricket scribes will soon assemble for a wake suggests they believe the battle is lost. And that is very sad.

Manchester United won the FA Cup for the first time when they beat Bristol City 1-0 in the final at Crystal Palace in 1909.

WG Grace was in the crowd.

And, being a Bristol City fan, he didn't like it.

When Hampshire played Nottinghamshire in the championship at Northlands Road in May 1930 the third and final day began with Hampshire requiring just one run to complete a five-wicket victory.

At the end of the extra half-hour on the second day, Nottinghamshire captain Arthur Carr, evidently in no rush to get back to the east Midlands, refused to start another over just to get the game finished.

Next morning his team took to the field in lounge suits and overcoats. Voce handed his overcoat to the umpire before bowling the first ball of the day. From the second came the required run.

Thirty-two years later Arthur Carr suffered a fatal heart attack while shovelling snow.

Similar laws should apply to the driving of shopping trolleys as do to the driving of cars. Trolley police should be stationed in every supermarket to clamp down on careless drivers, reckless drivers, speeding drivers, drivers under the influence of drinks or drugs, aisle blockers, lane-hoggers, unreasonably slow movers and drivers who fail to indicate properly. These people should be punished with penalty points which, under a totting-up procedure, eventually amount to a ban.