written May 1981

Tryst at Brackenridge Golf Course

Crickets and sprinklers
Fill the dark with chirping;
White arcs of spray
Are thrown around us,
Drumming the soaked earth,
Loud as surf from a quiet sea.
And we, chasing moonlight,
Dance under these arms of waves,
Escape a drenching,
But catch the fine mist in our hair.
Scent of cut grass exhales
From the still-warm
Ground in a long sigh
With the rising dew,
Just as your breath near my ear
Speaks of a long, hot yearning.
There is a stirring within us:
We are no longer dancing in each others' arms
But dancing in each other,
Resting on the bench at the 8th hole.

york2frisco
I'm glad you've posted this one again ... I like it as much now as I did the first time I read it.

erik99
I think I could do with a cool sprinkling like that, after such a passionate account!