Ray Andrews


Golf - Poem by Ray Andrews

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


Comments about Golf by Ray Andrews

  • Ernestine Northover (4/28/2006 4:04:00 PM)


    Marvellous one Ray. I loved the lovely way you explained the game. A thoroughly enjoyable read of a poem very well written indeed. Loved it. Love Ernestine XXX (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Friday, April 28, 2006



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