Shaft

A narrow shaft of dawn slips through the blinds,
A silken thread that pulls the night apart.
It climbs the stone‑worn stair, a quiet wind,
And paints the hallway with a trembling heart.

In mines it yawns, a dark, forbidding throat,
Where lanterns flicker like uneasy stars.
The men descend, their hopes a fragile coat,
While echoes bounce off ancient, granite scars.

A golf club’s shaft, a sleek, obedient spine,
Transfers the swing from palm to soaring flight.
It hums with tension, then releases fine,
Sending the ball to chase the morning light.

Whether of light, of stone, or sported grace,
A shaft is purpose—straight, resolute, true—
A line that ties the heavens to this place,
And guides us onward, steadfast through and through.