Seasons

A hammock out in the cooling breeze,
The Book of some Dreamer on my knees,
A far off glimpse of the sun-kist seas,
And a pipe to clench in my teeth.
A muddy welter in wind and rain,
A rush from the posts where the packed scrums strain,
A rally that battles ahead again,
And a whistle that shrieks for a goal.
What do they matter, the months between!
For the sake of the game is the living clean;
The tape in sight makes the running keen,
I live for the days to come.

—S.E.B.