Thomas's monday morning poetry

Good morning all,

East London is such a beautiful place to play tennis. I’ve just spent a week there, and a better place could not have been chosen. The weather was ideal, but in all the years that I’ve played sport in Slum Town, I can’t remember a bad day of weather. This is in direct comparison to the normally gale force conditions that us humble whackers of the ball deal with in the Windy, Friendly City.

The tournament was a Veterans tournament. This meant that everyone was over 30. Trouble. There were a couple of teams that did not do post match socializing, but I choose not to remember from whence they came. The rest were an happy bunch of tennis players/party animals. It is easy to be such a person when you don’t have to work the next day. What a pleasure.

We sampled some of East London’s best restaurants. We also sampled all the sports clubs. Let me not forget that we also sampled some superb tennis. Tennis is the one game where age damages your skill and enthusiasm only gradually: you still play tennis once you’ve retired from you job. Show me a rugby player charging into a loose maul at age 65, for 80 minutes against a pack of 21 year olds.

On day three of the inter-pro I had reason to laugh: the hot topic of conversation amongst us was how sore we were. The other hot topic was what brand of anti-inflammatory was best to keep us playing without any pain.

And now for a little bit of poetry:

Love’s Secret

William Blake

Never seek to tell thy love,
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind doth move
Silently, invisibly.

I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart,
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears.
Ah, she did depart!

Soon after she was gone from me,
A traveller came by,
Silently, invisibly:
He took her with a sigh.

Tootle pip.
Thomas