wordsout by godfrey rust
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Baseball in vintage glove


A dry track runs through pines along the shore.
The roots seem to grip on to sand.

A lighthouse wipes the sky and washes
the moon’s cracked face: tonight its beams

pick out no coloured horsemen. Life is change,
and change is like a line of little deaths

whispering as the wind high in these trees
Life cannot be lived except in dying.

In a season such as this
the soul may shrink and dry like leather

becoming a hard, small ball,
something to be thrown and hit

beyond who-knows-what boundary
if not caught in love’s firm glove.

This poem was originally titled Gironde, after the region in France in which it was written.

Godfrey Rust 1997, godfrey@wordsout.co.uk. See here for permissions.