Benjamin Posted June 29, 2011 Share Posted June 29, 2011 (edited) Early departure, conjures with my rhyme of Aberdeen and Wimbledon. But morning has no breath for window panes and each stop trades its passengers, as porters jostle for tips before they fade into oblivion. I revert to counting stiles. A wooden ramp where milk churns once stood, is full of female joggers with their pumped up thighs. They pose like Cretan bull-leapers ready to vault-- although not until the rushing beast has passed them by. But afternoon brings fresh strawberries and cream, sometimes even the sunshine. And fortunates in the centre-court, sit with well-dressed men and delicate ladies, who look twee-- although it seems-- appreciate combative grunts. Edited July 2, 2011 by Benjamin Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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