A poem about Nimbin

A poem about my local bowling club, normally a stronghold of conservatism and age, but in my home village a social hub. The club was taken over by the hippies, who changed a few of the rules... there are still older people, but now there are young people too.


Bowls


Such a gentle, social

Geometry; the lob and rolling

Kiss of hit-and-miss touch

Of green with a handful of dark

Weight placed, just so,

Upon a timed and trodden lawn.


I have to pause myself sometimes, to

Stop and watch the willing moment

Of the waiting word roll out

Seeking destination


Jane Austen could be almost jealous of this

Civilisation of muted feral chords

Modulating from formal white

To musical toned shades

Of green and blonde and tan

and dark, and amber;



Another one, and just one more

To trundle on

To inevitable

Gatherings.