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.
