wordsout by Godfrey Rust                                       Welcome To The Real World  47 of 59 →  HOME    


Baseball in vintage glove

Detached

A dry track runs through pines along the shore.
The roots seem to hold 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 just a line of little deaths 

whispering like 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.