The Game with the Feathered Projectile (Shuttlecock)

Lyrics

[Intro]

[Verse 1]
On the beach at low tide, August 12th, 2023,
I hold the shuttlecock in my palm,
white feathers from a goose, cork base worn smooth.
The net's fishing twine, stretched between driftwood poles,
Walter Clopton Wingfield might have smiled at this,
born 1833, died 1912, his games carried on winds.

[Chorus]
Shuttlecock, you dance in the 12-knot breeze,
from my racket, a wooden frame with gut strings frayed by salt,
you arc high over damp sand, lines drawn with a stick.
Unreturnable serve, you land with a thud,
muted by seaweed and the sea's briny tang.

[Verse 2]
Fifteen degrees Celsius, late afternoon, 4 PM shadows long,
I swing, thwack echoes against the howl,
you fly, bent slightly from the spray,
no two alike, plucked sometimes from local ducks in old village tales.
The thermos of tea waits in the wicker basket,
lukewarm reward after the point.

[Bridge]
Feathered projectile, you seal the nasopharynx of the game,
preventing the wind from entering wrong,
like a uvula in the throat of the sky.
But here, on this sand, you're just play,
innocent twist in the air.

[Verse 3]
Rules from 1893, Badminton Association,
but we bend them with the tide,
Poona from India, carried to these shores.
My serve again, you soar,
unreturnable in this gale,
landing where the waves licked hours ago.

[Outro]
Shuttlecock, rest now in the sand,
till the next low tide calls us back.