Downs Park Bank Holiday Monday Poem by C Richard Miles

|t wasn’t early that Bank Holiday morning
Ten-o’clock or so.
Some incident had apparently occurred
The previous evening.
Scything across the grass were the
Customary police tapes
Like blue and white striped candy
An irregular pentagram
Tended by two bored bobbies
One casually kicking a football
Foot to foot, an aspiring Maradona
With almost the same girth
As the bloated caricature
Of the once-trim star.
The other muttering into his radio
Bored with the solitude
Bored with the waiting
Bored with the inevitability
Of the same event
Repeated from just a few weeks ago
When the same tapes
Had the same part
Of the same park in bondage.

Unaware of any commotion
Yards away from the inaction,
The two indefatigable basketballers,
One looking the part
In pristine white baggy shorts
White trainers, white sleeveless vest,
The other, incongruous
In his black sack of a tracksuit
And bright blue T-shirt
With the target on his chest,
Dribbled, dodging and defeating
Imaginary defenders
Ten feet tall before they
Looped the orange orb into the loop
Time and time again
In constant real-life TV replay.

On the tennis courts
More incongruity
Two tired queens,
One bespectacled and shaven headed
With a dingy brown T-shirt
Not quite in rhyme with
Black jeans and trainers
A would-be style criminal in the gay community
The other more fashion-conscious
Hair gelled in Sonic the Hedgehog spikes
In I’m-so-butch army-green top
And baggy khaki shorts to match
Looked more the part
But enervated by the weekend’s
Exertion on the dancefloor
They tip-tapped the ball
Laboriously to and fro
In mere deference to exercise
Like stranded jellyfish on a volcanic lava beach
Whilst the indefatigable basketballers
Jumped and dunked
Majestically like leaping dolphins
In contrast.

On the other tennis court
Yet more disparity
A tall black giant
Athletic in his olive t-shirt
Tight shorts and mandatory baseball cap
Flexible as a poplar in a force-ten gale
Faced down his brave opponent,
A slim white girl
That even a breath of wind might shred
A waif in black shorts and top
Pony-tail hair whipping
Back and forth as she
Belted the ball past
Her bodybuilder boyfriend
With consummate ease.

At the police cordon
An ugly incident threatened to occur
A mother, Eastern European. I guessed
By her dress of magenta and charcoal
Pushing her grubby infant in a tatty pram
Dared to duck under the flapping barrier
Of the tapes that crossed the
Tarmac path and barred
The way a few yards
An inconvenience far smaller
Than those gulfs which she faced to get here.
Leaving the footballing has-been
Still unsuccessfully trying and failing
To demonstrate complex manoeuvres
His colleague sprinted
In slow motion up to her
And remonstrated almost as inffectively
Directing her to take
The long way through the grass;
Reluctantly she obeyed
Remembering her totalitarian-state childhood
Pram wheels dragging, cloying in the turf
To circumvent the embargoed area.

The indefatigable basketballers
Took no notice
Though they had stopped
Their skills to stretch.
Arms braced against the post
Like an elegant Greek letter lambda
They gave their aching hamstrings
One more work-out
Before continuing their air-surfing
On invisible breakers.

By the tennis courts
A semi-professional looking couple
Junior Wimbledon rejects
In their flash whites
Skilfully volleyed the ball
Between taut racket strings.
Looks that could kill,
Sharp as their shots,
Directed at the amateurs
That still stuck there
Sucking at the courts like leeches.

Father and daughter, too
Had now appeared
In his mind she
Would be the next Venus Williams
Toddler-tiny, the tennis racket
Was almost taller than the tot.
Undiscouraged he took out
His own shiny metallic racket
Bounced the acid yellow ball
Up and down on the strings
To impress the youngster
The small child looked
Unimpressed but he persevered
Positioning her a few yards
Away from him
He patted the tart lemon projectile
To her soft as a bathsponge.
Inevitably she missed, swatting ineffectively
As at an irritating midge.
Undeterred, he continued;
Occasionally she would edge
A few or catch some on the frame
But all misdirected;
Never back at him.

But the indefatigable basketballers
Never missed, shots from
All angles piercing the circle of steel
Like an arrow might
Strike the centre on the
Target of the one with the shirt

On a bench, unmoving
An old man, white haired and balding
Scruffy as a vagrant
But a council-flat dweller
From the refurbished estate
Neighbouring the park
Stretched out, uncomfortably,
Neck supported by the
Cold metal of the armrest
Catching a doze perhaps
Or contemplating the Bank Holiday
Which in his retirement
Was just another humdrum day
Like all the rest.

A patrol van arrived
Delivering breakfast cardboard boxed
And a cheap tabloid newspaper
To the begrudging guardians
Of off-limits grass.
A break from the boredom
Swiftly passed as sandwiches
And Costa coffee were consumed.
The paper was scanned cursively
Then tossed dismissively
On the small pile of clipboards
On top of a blue holdall.
Fluttering in the wind
In unison with the police tape,
The paper tried to protest
At its ill-use but gave up limply.

On the cricket pitch
A few hopefuls made a late start
To emulate their heroes
From the ashes:
The Caribbean contingent
That usually occupied the crease
Had not turned up
Since the six-wicket
Defeat at the hands of England
The previous day
Had sapped their motivation.

Forensics had arrived by now,
Jaded junior putting shame-faced
Sheepishly away his football
As the efficient-looking female
In an orange top
Hair tightly swept back and tied
And severe spectacles
Holding her camera and tripod
Surveyed the crime-scene for evidence.
Her scruffier companion
Followed like a lap dog
In jeans and denim jacket
A failed David Bailey
Forced to exchange
His photographic talents
For darker arts on crime scenes
Donning garish purple rubber gloves
Like a camp hairdresser
He combed the grass
In a zig-zag motion swaying as if drunk
Whilst she took pointless pictures
Of the monkey-bars
In the background.
A small black discarded carried bag
Seemed to be all they could find;
Disappointed with their treasure
They slumped off
Leaving the two PCs to
Clear the area of tape
Bundling up the candy-cane
Into a giant candy-floss.

A jogger, black torso straining
In dark distinction
To his cut-off bright white singlet
And freshly-laundered jogging pants
Skipped arrogantly along
The path between the birches
A scruffier check-shirted
Straggle-beard power walker
As if tagging on behind
Followed him up
The avenue of bushes
Before the greenery
Of the plane trees
Seemed to consume them
Hungry for some excitement.
They did not reappear,
Unlike the indefatigable basketballers
Still undiminished by their efforts
Soaring up to slam-dunk
The orange globe into the net
Performing seals now
On the macadam ocan.

On the now-available monkey-bars
One lime-green vested hopeful
Thin as string
Pale as talcum
Dangled from skinny arms
Ankles crossed
Performing incomprehensible
Pull ups, far more energetic
Than his spindly frame.
Not to be outdone
The muscular black boy
With the black backpack
Dressed all in black
On the black bicycle
Stopped for a second
To heft his hulking bulk
Up and down a few times
From the frame of the monkey-bars
Before cycling on across the tarmac
Unimpressed, the lean machine
Pressed on with his
Exertions, softness seemingly
Subduing strength.

On the tennis courts, an alteration:
The amateurs had given way
To the professionals
Altercations had taken place
And the court was glad
That it could be of use
To some who knew its importance.

Loading their tangle of tape
And stack of traffic cones
Into the indistinct police car
Which was hard to notice
Eaten up like the joggers
By the all-consuming London Planes
The coppers, morning’s work done
Essayed a few last kicks
At the blue and black football
Before driving off
To leave the park
To the plodding joggers, agile gymnasts
Would-be tennis stars and cricketers

And even the indefatigable basketballers
Gave up in the end
And disappeared into obscurity
And slunk away
Shrouded in black anoraks
Huge as manta-rays
Bored with the non-events
Non-excitement over for another day.