Shake off the guilt, switch the phone to answer and pray the doorbell doesn’t ring.
Hull the strawberries, switch on the remote and listen for that familiar ping.
The scene is set, the sacred turf, the net drawn taught, those lines so white
Hear fluffy ball hit racquet string as heads turn first left then right.
Shut out the world, pull down the shutters or is that just too mean
I must sign off now, 13 days await, the feast of South West 19