The tennis courts
Where we once played through the laughter
Lie unloved and netless in the morning drizzle,
And the already faded white lines
Are mostly smudged and covered in moss,
Winning and losing would be impossible
Even if you were here.

The bandstand watches me as I ease under the willow
And cross the manicured lawn
Where I find an old soggy ball
And as if  you had called me to do it
I throw it back.

Rain, empty, soft, feathered
Leaves roundabouts dangerous
Speeds up slides
Falls unnoticed on a duck's back
Unmeasured in the lake,
But renders the wooden bridge deceptively slippery
And if I should fall from view
It would not raise a murmur or a ripple.