A dry track runs through pines along the shore.
The roots seem to grip on to sand.
wipes the sky and washes
the moon’s cracked face: tonight its beams
out no coloured horsemen. Life is change,
and change is like a line of little deaths
as the wind high in these trees
Life cannot be lived except in dying.
a season such as this
the soul may shrink and dry like leather
a hard, small ball,
something to be thrown and hit
if not caught in love’s firm glove.
poem was originally titled Gironde,
after the region in France in which it was written.
© Godfrey Rust, firstname.lastname@example.org. See here for permissions.