The Men Who Play Bowls


We overhear the body and bowl connection,
muffled words of technique and tactic
as one man strings a stare to the far end.
The jack, alone. Parched upon the ground.

The knee bends, an arm swings slow,
casting a cradled bowl low in the palm
to the ground, departing hand to shadow,
a quiet transit, swift without a sound.

From all the years of practice, the fights,
the conversation, the rebellious spurs,
the regretful aftermath, he knows,
and quite rightfully so,

not to throw the bowl too hard.

One thought on “The Men Who Play Bowls

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