On the edge of the land is an island
On the edge of the island a town
On the edge of the town is a ball field
The foggiest ball field around,

With wood outfield walls
up against a dirt street
And an ocean-cloud backstop
thick as concrete,

Where real life stays lost
When the game’s going,
A toy globe of warm mist
Bat cracking, and throwing.

And people all come
Most definitely
Some knowing, some chosen
Some plain dumb lucky

To stumble upon
What could pass as a dream
A scene from real life
That looks torn from a screen.

In the fog
On a field
Past an old island town
Thirty miles from land
Across sea and sound

Where if not for the sight
And vibe of a ball
It could be mistook
For the edge of it all,

So far away
Most won’t ever find it,
Yet a diamond in waiting
For those who go mine it.