Pegula

 

Pegula

 

You remember from far childhood, a haunting voice,

calling across the heather and gorse:

‘Come awae now, Jess, come away ma wee one.’

Can you almost see my outstretched hand,

pulling you back – from this to that far land?

Just a French fancy, pay it no heed,

wide of the mark; here’s another tumbling seed

that sticks its gossamer to the breeze,

falls, most certain to fruit in stages and ages.

But something’s not quite right, call it amiss,

you’re serving and your every stroke kisses

the tape – from ball toss to volley – he’s spinning,

who knows which way or what it might add –

a bristling mongoose that strikes Nagaina or Nag,

and leaps or snags, falls in faults deuce side.

No let, no net, did they forget? ‘Come awae, Jess,

now come awae,’ let the wind address tresses -

I sense it, watching – rankling me, imperceptibly

drifting upon Chocolonely, asking what sort of name,

but can’t confirm it when eyesight’s to blame.

An umpire high upon her chair knows those to keep -

surely discards any rules that are obsolete

or slow the match down, Jess, I think the message’s

best kept an open secret – it’s a short enough life,

all mixed doubles, net calls, not right, not wrong -

‘Come away, now, come awae home, ma wee one,’

she haunts me too, take two, have some, keep mum.