Ware Bowling Club

The flat green at Ware is a tapestry of late afternoon light, where Stortford's visitors stand in crisp, blue shirts.

A heavy wood leaves a weathered hand, carving a slow, biased arc toward the distant jack. 

Up on the shaded pavilion, the spectators are settled in, leaning against the wooden rails and reclining in their chairs.

They are quietly supping iced Pimm’s and cool bitter ale, murmuring low, agreeable tones between sips and slurps. 

Their eyes lazily track the roll on the lawn below, lifting their glasses in silent salute as wood gently clacks against wood. 

“Good wood,” someone whispers into their pint, as the shadows stretch across the grass and the slow, elegant geometry of the match plays on.

Commissioned piece