Poetry

The Bowling Club

Now that the prunus trees are spilling pink blossom across the suburbs it’s recruiting time at the bowling club. A banner tacked to the park railings offers fun days and lessons from experts to tempt us to trot along to the club that’s full of go, and join. I shan’t. I couldn’t face the long summer afternoons of stooping over a lawn superior to my lounge carpet and I don’t want to wear linen whites which would insist my buttocks are solid as Christmas puddings when I fail to roll the bowl anywhere near the jack. I’d detest the intense…

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