To Tennis, at Rowntree Park

 Rosie Cantrell

We’d walk to the park, our rackets in hand

and wander to a sort of wonderland,

between the courts were hyacinths, their scent

rose up amid our rallies and our friends.

Now we sit on green benches, by grey paths

where once we swung and ran mid greenest grass

we think again of matches of mixed pairs

and watching, keen, on angled flaky chairs.

We’d stroll among the goslings in the park

and squeeze through railings, gently in the dark,

devour the suppers made and lit with gas

and barbecues with huddles on the grass.

A cup all tarnished, rubbed would show who won

when once we tennised, happ’ly in the sun.

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