A Sonnet for Hardwick Short Mat Bowls Club
Upon the mat where quiet battles start,
The woods roll true beneath the village light.
Each measured push reveals a practised art,
A gentle sport with fiercely noble fight.
Here friendships bloom as steady as the jack,
And laughter drifts like chalk dust in the air.
A perfect line, a subtle weighted track—
Small moments shared that make a club so rare.
Through winter nights and summer’s softer glow,
Hardwick stands strong, its spirit never fades.
New players learn, and seasoned hands still show
The craft that time and camaraderie made.
So, here’s to bowls, to skill and cheerful fun—
A club united, rolling as one.
Richard, Our Captain
O Captain Richard, fearless at the helm,
You guide our bowls through triumph and despair.
Though sometimes chaos tries to overwhelm,
You simply sigh… then blame the slippery air.
You rally troops with speeches bold and bright,
(Or muttered lines like, “Please… just hit the jack.”)
You judge each bowl with half-amused delight,
And raise an eyebrow when they wander back.
Your tactics—genius, madness, who can tell?
A whispered plan, a gesture, or a shrug.
Yet somehow matches always end up well,
Though rarely how they looked upon the rug.
So, here’s to you, who leads with charm and grin—
A captain strong… when the bowls decide to spin.