Dabbling in that kind of thing
I could fill a book with poems
from these things that come to mind.
You out of hospital again,
us, withdrawing for a few hours
to build sandcastles.
Defences weakening. Tides.
Our telephone conversation the next day:
you telling me you’ve planted out
those bulbs we brought down.
Grace note cosying up to melancholy.
Yes, I could fill a book
dabbling in that kind of thing.
The heat was off me and had fallen
out of June. I dozed on the sofa,
under my eyelids, a faint pulse
of first day Wimbledon drizzle.
Martina Hingis, veteran of twenty six,
taking the opening set on the lushest green.
Virginia, can this artiste of the women’s game
win Wimbledon again?
Let the question hang,
let a few more worries melt;
after today its dust bowl on the baseline,
the clenched fist of victory,
something not thought of now
bawling out its deadline.