Strange Innings

They still play. On village greens.

In places where there are nannies,

gardeners, cleaners and such.

You can't hear the “pok!”

of leather on willow

above the baby's cry,

the strimmer and the hoover.

Katja, baby on her shoulder,

looks out of a mullioned window

watches the to and fro

and the catch and throw,

it might as well

be modern ballet

in Krakow.

Zbigniew stops the mower.,

wipes the sweat on a too-long sleeve,

smiles at the strange game

and last night's girl whose odd name,

reminds him of

a schooldays-girlfriend

in Lublin.

Lavra, kicking at the hoover,

takes the bag out front to empty it,

gazes at the rolling ball,

hears the woman's voice from the long hall:

she shouts just like

her Great Aunt Magda

in Warsaw.

They still play. Their English games.

In places where the money loves

architects, lawyers and such.

You can't have the luck

of living in houses

beyond your wildest dreams,

whilst playing in the sunshine.

Footnote: Krakow is pronounced "Krakuv"