Excuse me. I’m sorry. I speak as an
Englishman.
For the game of lawn tennis there’s no
better symbol than Wimbledon,
The place where the game’s flame was
sparked and then kindled in,
Where so many spines have sat straight
and then tingled in
Wimbledon,
Where strawberries and cream have
traditionally been sampled in,
Kids’ eyes have lit up and their cheeks
have been dimpled in
Wimbledon,
Where tough tennis cookies have
cracked and then crumbled in,
Top seeds have stumbled, have
tumbled, been humbled in
Wimbledon,
Where home-grown heroes’ hopes have
swelled up and then dwindled in
Wimbledon.
The Grand Slams’ best of breed – it’s the
whizz, it’s the biz,
The temple where physics expresses
its fizz.
There’s one word for tennis and that
one word is
Wimbledon.
Copyright Matt Harvey, The Championships Poet 2010
