Les Littleford (25 April 1943 / Warwickshire, England)
Ode to Golf
Dare you compare it to a country walk?
Dismissed by some a sadly wasted day,
But this of course is ill informed, the talk
Of those ne’er to have shared the joy of play,
Or felt that surge of pleasure at the smack
Of club on ball as it soars through the sky,
A show of perfect symmetry in air,
To land with satisfying thump on track
Then roll and roll to find that perfect lie.
But why are such experiences so rare?
We happily delude ourselves, pretend
Just being out there, playing is the key,
when everything we try seems to descend
to slicing, hooking, drop kicks off the tee.
But then of course we hit that perfect shot
And strong competing juices flow once more
Hopes for a winning round no longer blown
We tell ourselves our putter’s running hot
Try in vain to not focus on the score
And sense that magic space: we’re in the zone!
Dismissed by some as, simply, just a game,
We golfers know it’s something more profound;
A metaphor for life, a course to tame,
The endless quest to play that perfect round.
We seek new tricks to fix that dreadful hook,
One special club, new model, latest version
A better standard ball to help us cope,
And a new wardrobe to achieve that look.
However terrible our last excursion.
We always start each new round full of hope.
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