An incident in the park

Taut in black Lycra, lean as greyhounds

in the citrus light of the floodlit court

they are a tableau, glowing in the dark.

Free spirits, their hands snatch at the white ball.

With their long haunches and arms of coral

they are not of our earth at all

but of some watery realm

like nymphs on a Greek vase.

Their gift is to trap time and pass it on.

Or, I could say, ballet, or a colourful fresco

but, the truth is, I am no expert on netball

merely an office worker, walking through the park.

Through some nuance of movement

I sense that they have noticed me

My gaze must have landed a little too long.

I am a trespasser on their ritual.

We are fallen, the spell is broken.
They question me; I question myself

and my interest in their delicate art.

This is not religion or mythology, it’s sport.

I cannot untangle my brain from my heart.

And so, nymph wrestles with satyr.

I am a man; I must walk by

their picture trapped in the film of my eye.