The Back Yard, The Thing
The yard was a virtual penalty-area,
A brick wall formed a goal’s frame;
A tennis ball rebounded from the wall of the house
For me to volley or head in my game.
The service received was from a virtual left-wing,
My timing significantly improved
As I commentated on my imaginary matches,
Until my theatre was cruelly removed…
The sun-trap beckoned my mum to a corner,
On a garishly striped deckchair she sat;
She perfected an all-year round sun-tan,
Lounging with her knitting and the cat.
The sun-loungers would replace the deckchairs
And thus comfort improved through the years;
Yet the breeze, the fresh air and freedom
Were lost to unbearable heat and mum’s tears…
The cricket stumps of screwed wood offcuts
Leaned beneath the kitchen window sill;
On occasional summer Sunday evenings I battled
Against my dad’s fierce competitive will.
The underarm spinners he bowled at me harshly
Necessitated batting with sheer concentration;
Bowling and fielding across his hallowed lawn though,
Brought me some considerable compensation…
The verandah replaced my recreational years,
Built largely by my father’s acquaintance:
A retired, not very fit builder, who needed dad’s aid,
Whilst mum considered the workload a hindrance.
The finished new sun-trap pleased her:
An extension, her haven, a new wing;
She tarried, she dozed, she reclined and relaxed
In what was dubbed, ‘That garden Thing’…
The drying washing, old carpets, plants and mats
Filled the yard-space until mum’s health waned
And her arthritis saw her mostly housebound
And the verandah began to leak when it rained.
The demise was gradual but inevitable:
A death, the neglect, damp and decay
Meant the ‘Thing’ became full of sorrowful junk,
Where belongings soured in disarray…
Just coldness, dampness and incurable rot,
Just stained materials, a broken pot;
Just a deflated football, a low wicker stool,
Just the discolouring and the waste so dreadfully cruel;
Just fragile dead insects and broken chairs,
Just flaking cracked paint because nobody cares;
Just rubble and complete degeneration,
Just the remnants of a lost generation…
No commentaries, no shots lashing against walls,
No deckchairs, no knitting, no spun tennis balls;
No clean, ironed washing draped over a drier,
No black cat on a lap, long since expired;
No healthy plants, no vacuumed floors,
No fresh paint recently administered to doors;
No life there, no point, nothing more than grief,
No more than memories, maybe happy but brief…
Pete Ray
January 2017
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| MOM & DAD SITTING IN MY GOALMOUTH... |
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| WHERE THE LAWN WOULD EVENTUALLY BE TOO GOOD TO PLAY ON. THE LILAC TREE IS BEHIND ME, WHERE MY CAT SCRATCHED THE BARK OFF & WAS FINALLY BURIED BENEATH... |
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| THE GARISH DECKCHAIRS: EVEN RICKY THE CAT HAD ONE... |
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| DAD PREFERRED TO SNAP THE NEW WALL THAN MY MOM. 1980... |
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| FINISHED... |
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| LOOKS GOOD... |
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| DAD'S SISTER CONNIE & MY MOM, WHO LOOKS A LITTLE DELICATE FROM THE ARTHRITIS SHE WAS PLAGUED BY... |
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| THE 'THING'S' FINAL DAYS... |
Nearmoor Road, Shard End.
I played for many hours in that yard, heading the tennis ball as it came back off the main house wall, or smashing left-foot volleys at the dividing wall between next door’s garden and mine.
Mom sat in a corner of the yard during the summer, knitting, nursing the cat and dozing.
Cricket was tough for me, having been forced to be a right-handed batsman by my dad, even though I was left-handed.
I bowled to him too and he desperately needed to strike the ball past me to reach the rockery behind me, meaning some leaping, diving, stopping and catching by me.
The verandah was built and things changed. The cat, Ricky, was buried beneath the lilac tree he sharpened his claws upon, now long gone it appears and mum sat for most of the year in her new space. One of her sisters described it as a ‘Thing’ which hurt mom badly.
The verandah of course became a mess after mom died and dad wasn’t able to muster enough need to keep it clean or tidy.
It’s what happens I guess…
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