Middle Aged Tennis Lesson

Thirty years since Mrs Meckin Said "Sian, who are y' markin'?" on the hockey field Wind chillin' Legs freezin' Knuckles reddenin' Clutchin' the rubber handle of my Mum's old hockey stick Always third from last to be chosen for The Team "No, not again, please don't let it happen again" So humiliatin' Bro always gets in "Don't worry, Sian. Music's your thing" So, moving house again with three kids Out of London, away from the smog, the stress, the jumbled up head To the house with the gate. A gate at the end of the garden Through To the Tennis Club Narnia The Secret Garden A Whole New World Of Head Space, blue sky, breeze and humour Leave the worry of how the kids are doin' The washin' The cookin' The state the house's in The husband not returnin' Til gone midnight on the cancelled train Standin' in a huddle by the club house Nervous laugh and a "How do you do?" No wimbledon tennis whites Just the baggy top to cover the downward sag of Three labours, excess Chardonnary and taramosolata dip Ball straight up to endless blue Oh coach, "how DO you DO?!" Ladies swooning Chopper grip ready Backhand, volley, rally, smash Dash For the ball Which is just in A new beginnin'