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| Final, 1960 - Rose Robertson |
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They’re playing the Wimbledon semis. Stretched on my
stomach I watch, sweating in striped green cotton.
Graceful Maria takes on our Christine, white flash
on grey grass.
My brother hears rings, goes to answer
Dan chirps, ‘Oh I say, lethal backhand.’ Six-love.
Why’s he so long? I turn. The world spins. He
masters his mouth to say, go round now to our aunt.
I ask no questions I don’t want the answer.
She turns on the Queen and the Duke at Balmoral
Young Charles and Anne; first invasion by telly.
‘Imagine it, they go on picnics, just like us.’
The doorbell. Whispers. A cry, stifled. Returning,
her one brief glance tells all.
They’re playing the Wimbledon finals. We sit, mute.
Cheers for Maria are filling the orphaned silence.
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