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A crisp bright morn,
Wine-like air
Friends greet each other,
The day bids fair.
The swish of club,
The crack on ball.
That felt good,
‘Great shot’; the call
A leisurely stroll,
The next shot planned,
Skill? As usual,
Takes a hand.
A nine iron shot,
Fate is kind.
Teeth unclench,
Nerves unwind.
You’re on the green
A twelve-foot putt;
Slides by the hole,
Club-face shut.
To strong a grip,
The drives a 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’. (As if)
You’re on the green
Four feet passed on a downhill lie,
Ball finds the cup.
You heave a sigh.
Back in the clubhouse,
Feeling grand,
Though the game didn’t go
Quite as planned.
That drive on the third
Was something to see
Did I hit it that well?
Was that really me?
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