Grass stripes lob across the divide,
over the sprung boundary
that later will be dropped
at end of this day’s coverage.
When backhands have gone home
arm in advertising arm
with talk of “You cannot be serious!”
and yesteryear is munching strawberries,
notes on the play goes on.
So does the switch of alliance
to stronger overseas players,
“That guy can’t be English?”
too right, he’s not ready yet. Damn
these Wimbledon promises
of a home-grown champion.
The back lawn so unforgiving,
elbows slip into sunbathed forgetfulness,
wishing Henman might serve an ace
in the muscular belief
he’s Sampras’s righthand man.
Who knows, there’s still time
for a final British deuce to hit baseline;
bounce into a summer umbrella.
