For golfers everywhere, why do we do it.

A crisp bright morn
with wine-like air.
Friends greet each other,
the day bids fair.

The swish of a of club,
the crack on ball.
That felt good.
‘Great strike’ the call.

A leisurely stroll.
The next shot planned.
Skill, (we wish), as usual,
will take a hand.

Too fast a swing.
A vicious hook.
Silence reigns,
you’re scared to look.

It’s in the rough.
Close by a tree.
Teeth are gritted.
Oh! Bugger me.

Your partner walks over.
Smiling; kind:
Says, ‘it’s only a game’.
So never mind, (he must be joking).

Your teeth unclench.
Nerves unwind.
A nine iron taken.
Fate is kind.

You’re on the green.
A twelve-foot putt
misses the cup,
club face shut.

It’s four feet passed
on an uphill lie.
The ball drops in,
you heave a sigh.

Back in the clubhouse
feeling grand,
though the game
didn’t go, quite as planned.

That drive on the third:
That was something to see:
Did I strike it that well?
Was it really me?