Poem

Baseball on the Cliff

About thirty or so feet from our front door
Was the edge of a cliff with the ocean below
And with my old Sydney Mines Rambler bat
To the baseball game my feet carried me.

Bigger than any Fenway or Comiskey Park
Was my baseball field in adolescent years
My fans were the waves and roaring winds
My infield Big Rocks, my outfield open sea.

Spitting honed to an art, a pitcher well armed
An eagle eye, a mighty right handed swing
My baseballs were any small loose rocks
Picked on the beach, smooth from the sea.

Washed high on shore, was the ocean angry
If so with my ball game it would be pleased
I gathered and returned those perfect stones
First from the beach, then back to waiting sea.

First by select picking, then by a crushing blow
A stone would rise high into the atmosphere
Flight like a rainbow arc, a fall into ocean blue
Sinking beneath sea until spit again on the sand.

Written by Hab
Oct 9, 2008