After Tennis by Irene Wilkie

Heat fires a shot, a rivet shifts the verandah roof,
hosed – down creepers wet- barrier the air,
racquets, bicycles lean in shade

We drink lemonade, quell the body’s steaming;
mother chatters – how cool the tennis courts
before the sun begins its burn

My skirt is damp against my thighs, white shirt clings;
your eyes flick away like timid birds and I am aware –
your blond boy – fuzz, the robust chin, the temple rivulets

Your voice quivers – not your own; you ask me
to the local picture show – Vivien and Clark
Father nods approval, mother smiles

They like you    a reminder of their youth?
and I accept the heart- hammer promise of closeness
in the dark, of fleeting hours, holding hands

You go home and I float inside
choosing what flimsy thing I will wear
The night, too slow in its coming,
sends up a dusty moon –

father downs a beer
and mother charrs the sausages

© Irene Wilkie