Wimbledon

Wimbledon

Two weeks of tennis every July.
some moan and groan, others will cry.
roof on, roof off change the balls,
30, 40, on the line calls.

Advantage, match point jingly nerves,
double faults and powerful serves.
Broken rackets, tempers lost
strawberries and cream, ignore the cost.

Umpires, hawk eye, in and out.
some will sulk, others pout.
Centre court crowds, fine mown grass,
special box for the upper class.

Headbands, caps, tight white skirts,
Titanium rackets Fred Perry shirts.
Backhands, rallys, covers on courts,
rain stops play brollies bought.

Towels for wiping a sweating face,
bottles of squash to help the pace.
Doubles, singles. Fairytale endings,
attacking nets desperate defending.

Autograph hunters looking for stars,
drinking Pimms in trendy bars.
Plaited ball girls on the run,
matches lost, matches won.

Line judges stoop to watch the line,
cloudy skies and then it’s fine.
Murray’s mound or Henman’s Hill,
thousands watch it’s such a thrill.

Ladies finals smiles and tears,
plates held high lots of cheers.
Then the men fight for their cup,
they may be tired but they step up.

Then it’s over the weeks have flown,
new stars emerge new seeds are sown.
Purple and green the Wimbledon colours,
watching in the stand proud Fathers and Mothers.

Wimbledon means Summer has begun,
we’ve loved every minute when all’s said and done.

Jan Millward©