Tennis

Mostyn Gardens had a tennis court  

Where the long summer evenings were

Filled with gentle cursing.

The poplar trees filtered the sun

And threw long, spiney fingers

Of shade across the park

Sharp-edged blades

Flourished where the mower

Could not reach the angle

The chain-link fence bulged

Where a hundred schoolboys

Used it as a buffer

In headlong retrieval

Between us we had

A few rickety rackets and

Maybe six threadbare balls

The sun was often low and

Screeched into our narrowed eyes

As we served.

Sometimes, the best times,

We knocked up and played

Impromptu points.

No serious competition.

The leaves on the trees

Murmured a blanketing

Of the sound from the road.

Pensioners sauntered past

With dogs nearly as old.

We played for hours.

Never tired. Never thirsty.

We shouted across the park

As lucky shots fell in.

Or gasped with effort,

Or smashed a lofted ball

which came off the frame,

Or called ‘out’ desperately at a ball

That was only approximately so.

Occasionally – a purple patch.

Win a few points. But not for long.

We hurled everything at the rallies.

All our energy, all our madness,

All our sadness, suffused in dying light,

All our obliteration of the pain.

And we cackled until the twilight

Turned to darkness

Before we wend home

As the gibbous moon rose.

November 2025