I didn’t time my photography skills well, and when the Hockey season starts again I’ll make sure to return to Warners Bridge for some colour and proper action for this page. For now, you have the quieter and more reflective side of a club that my husband’s payed and umpired for over several decades. He went on tour this year too: Gibraltar looked very sunny from a distance.

I’ve spent a lot of time with hockey at arm’s length: there were reasons for this, as there are for so many things. Mostly, only now am I beginning to be comfortable with my physical ability. It’s taken a while, but that’s something that can be admitted in public, as other things have been over the years. My husband’s a hero, and I take the opportunity to remind him of this fact whenever possible.

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Hockey, Sticks

I tried once, sport’s your
choice to play, I’ll watch
Saturday’s warm window breath
better results in pitch, and yet

drinking games were
worth
your names.

I stayed at home,
made
other worlds until
November day, his
end began
worst path

regretted
to this
day.

Now you teach them rules,
observe, not
referee of orange tee
umpire bites back
but never rude,

this warm, wood shed
piled pre-cooked
match tea of the gods.

Belonging, understand
tribes made by
other’s hands devolve
life’s memories

dad’s histories
calligraphy; slow
hand carved
words.

Club’s trophies, chronicle exposed.