Mark Pirie

poet - writer - editor - publisher

For Michael Beamish

Passing the courts at Wellington Girls’,

reminded me of summer days, with Mum

or friends. 1980s. Mum trained me up,

hitting forehands and serves with efficiency.

I could hit a right backhand return from playing

cricket, and forehands were hit with my left arm.

Serving, I was usually slicing or over-hitting,

but made up for it with cheeky drop shots.

My other favourites were top spin lobs

and smashing volleys. Mum could keep up

for a set, then grew tired; I grew older, kept playing

with her trusty steel Wilson, while other kids

had futuristic graphite, the latest thing.

It didn’t matter; I liked her old racquet.

Out on court, running hard, keeping balls in play,

I heard the song of her old strings.