(24 January 1961 / South Africa)

Golf

The lofted ball up in the sky
From early Scotland you can hear them cry
If it lands in the rough and not on the green
A verbal lament, an error gone unseen

Rythmic swings like ballroom dance
The slightest error reduces your chance
An errant head or a wandering eye
If the ball is topped it won't even fly

The Gods of golf have deemed it sure
You may think your game is clean and pure
A little fatigue, too strong of a grip
The ball's trajectory it's own little trip

Or maybe it's fate with it's own hand
On somedays in the hole it won't even land
Fickleness reigns-nothing's the same
The draw of the fairways-the name of the game

User Rating: 4,8 / 5 ( 2 votes ) 1

Comments (1)

Like it. Have you noticed another thing about Washing machines, as soon as the warranty runs out It breaks down. A great poem. May i invite you to read my new poem called, For Paul Blackburn. Its a true story.