THE BEAUTIFUL GAME
We scatter the last crumbs of home-made quiche
And iced cake for bird fodder as we shake our picnic remains
Onto Clumber Park’s grass – still verdant green patches
Thrive despite an August drought and a high summer wind
Makes the heat more tolerable as it snakes amongst tree-tops.
Three thousand eight hundred acres, once the country estate
Of the Dukes of Newcastle. Open heath, woodland, rolling farmland,
Swan-dotted lake, a ‘cathedral in miniature’ chapel, playgrounds
For children and adults, the ubiquitous National Trust merchandise
Of Orla Keirly woven red and blue picnic rugs, wine-goblets, flasks.
The air smells summer- green and herby, we rise from our blankets,
A racing-green painted seat, grab Evie’s ball won at Sheffield’s
Lucky Duck race and fan out in a roughly circular layout,
Clout a hand-ball, kick a high one, and flick an overhead pass.
It is fast, furious fun; the wind as light now as our thoughts.
Evie-May runs deftly as fast as her daddy-long legs
Can carry the full weight of her five and a half years,
Dribbling the ball a specialty, her aim and sense of direction
Charming in its youthful inaccuracy. Her father plucks her up,
Swings her legs at the ball time and again; we are all dizzy
With laughter as the ball escapes to the lake-edge
Nested with swans and humans clustering its reeded banks.
Evie in hot pursuit, whooping at full-pelt, a red-headed whirl-wind.
The child retrieves the ball, runs back to the pitch, flings herself
Prostrate into its centre. ‘Man down, man down!’ cries her father.
We make few concessions for her age but often neither does she,
Just envy her extra stamina and realise we are the noisiest family
At Clumber Park today, but one having the most fun in breaking
Rules and making it up as we go; that’s life, the beautiful game.
Copyright Susan Flower 2015
We scatter the last crumbs of home-made quiche
And iced cake for bird fodder as we shake our picnic remains
Onto Clumber Park’s grass – still verdant green patches
Thrive despite an August drought and a high summer wind
Makes the heat more tolerable as it snakes amongst tree-tops.
Three thousand eight hundred acres, once the country estate
Of the Dukes of Newcastle. Open heath, woodland, rolling farmland,
Swan-dotted lake, a ‘cathedral in miniature’ chapel, playgrounds
For children and adults, the ubiquitous National Trust merchandise
Of Orla Keirly woven red and blue picnic rugs, wine-goblets, flasks.
The air smells summer- green and herby, we rise from our blankets,
A racing-green painted seat, grab Evie’s ball won at Sheffield’s
Lucky Duck race and fan out in a roughly circular layout,
Clout a hand-ball, kick a high one, and flick an overhead pass.
It is fast, furious fun; the wind as light now as our thoughts.
Evie-May runs deftly as fast as her daddy-long legs
Can carry the full weight of her five and a half years,
Dribbling the ball a specialty, her aim and sense of direction
Charming in its youthful inaccuracy. Her father plucks her up,
Swings her legs at the ball time and again; we are all dizzy
With laughter as the ball escapes to the lake-edge
Nested with swans and humans clustering its reeded banks.
Evie in hot pursuit, whooping at full-pelt, a red-headed whirl-wind.
The child retrieves the ball, runs back to the pitch, flings herself
Prostrate into its centre. ‘Man down, man down!’ cries her father.
We make few concessions for her age but often neither does she,
Just envy her extra stamina and realise we are the noisiest family
At Clumber Park today, but one having the most fun in breaking
Rules and making it up as we go; that’s life, the beautiful game.
Copyright Susan Flower 2015
