(Growing Pains) 12. Tennis in Bournemouth

Eyed by pigeons and the tall windows
of elegant cream mansions
she and he enter the court.
Father and daughter, mentor and child,
racquets swinging.

Left outside, I contribute
the only way I know.
From a damp bench, peering through
the barrier of wire,
I draw them.

Years later, I see that I have drawn
the netting round the court
intricately, lovingly,
like a prisoner viewing
the exercise yard.