Wimbledon

 

The strawberries are arriving,

with the champagne on ice.

The picnickers are returning

settling down on Henman Hill.

 

It’s the idyllic summer scene

right out of an English poem.

Green courts are neatly mown.

The seeds of history are sown.

 

Crowds are raucous with applause.

Players react with cries, gestures

and chat. A line-judge calls “Out!”

The ball goes thwock, or thwack.

 

Games run out like the sands of Time.

Back stage, old hands call the match.

The clock – tick-tock – is in the shots.

Forehand or backhand; it’s all a winner.

 

Poem © Mark Pirie, 2026