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'
Copyright © Sian Maddock | Year Posted 2016
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment