No more the three-hole golf course

Sliced from the main by a roaring road

Where the smooth green altars are ring-fenced

Stopping ponies from putting their load.

Our heads are carried in an arc

Seeing golf balls take off and land

And dog and I suppress titters

As balls end in places unplanned.

The game' a powerful addiction

They're at it right up to night falls

And in the dark white days of winter

Old men putt with yellow balls.

Now that the fairways

Are clear for ever

I decide to play the twelfth

612 yards, par 5, dog-leg to the right

Dog Bramble to caddy!

My swing and ping are pure joy

As the ball glides long and straight

Kicks-on from the ridge

Back of a startled stallion

Speeds through the damp grass, with

Mole hills to the left of me

Horse poo to the right

Here I am, stuck

Smack in the middle with dew.

I forelock the liquid applause

From the unlined fairway.

My second shot had distance, but fade

Catching the bunker by the green.

Dog-caddy passes me a sandwich

It is her best golf joke

I need a sand wedge.

I clip to within five feet of the flag

And back-putt the ball in passing

To set the ghostly galleries gasping

At my one under par, and reaffirm that

Golf is as easy as lying in bed

Golf's a game best played in the head.

– by Patrick Browne