They stand in solemn little groups, the men
With large white hats upon their heads, and nurse
Their wooden piccaninnies in their hands,
Gazing across the shaven green, and then
One crouches low and urges on its course
A small black bowl, and back, surveying, stands
Ere sending down his wood with acumen
To place it cheek by jowl – there’s nothing worse
Than leaving gaps to creep in; then commands
Of “Round peg !” “Finger bias !” till again,
With end completed, one the jack will throw,
And all will try to lay their woods just right.
Do they, these warriors, recall the might
Of Spain’s sea-conquerors on Plymouth Hoe?
Weekly Times 2.9.60