The sound of metal on metal is still
Petanque is over for the year
No group meetings even on a piste
And we can’t even meet for a beer
Will we be back next Spring?
The omens don’t look good
Will we still not hear the metal ding
ringing round the neighbourhood
We cross our fingers, and our toes
Will we ever meet again on a piste
Even just for pleasure on a Sunday
And say hello by bumping a fist.