A certain understandable arrogance
displayed, not a callow cockiness of the
brash swains decorating the makeshift
bar braying mulish bravado.
Where they sniggered and guffawed
he stayed aloof, played obtuse male
compliments with skilled racquet,
returning serves with indolent ease.
No-one bested the young man
and it pleased the sitting women
watching – measuring him and
his newly attained maturity.
Ach, no penny to his name yet,
but a pension from the Military for
sure, his Mam says. Wounded, wasn’t
he? Aye. Not anywhere – important?
Nay. A concussion it was, at the end, some
shrapnel. He still plays a good game of tennis –
not as fast as before with the limp and all;
no title this year but recall the glory days!
They would have him married to one of
their own before the year ended, and he,
innocent and unknowing, smiled graciously
when they waved their come hither waves.
© 19 March 2007, I.D. Carswell
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