The clink of golf clubs slung in the car
The smell of green grass freshly mown
The heave of the sigh of the amateur golfer fending his way
The heal of the hole being under the clay.
These are the things I remember my Dad by
They make me sing for the days of yore when
I could afford a few pence to play a bit of ball
But no more for I am without and that is where
The sin sets in.
To admit one is short is a cardinal immortal sin to be alone
To be both and admit it is the end.
Is it failure not to be as my dad was been? To
Feel the end is here without a son or daughter to send
Unto the abyss of time ahead…?
Copyright 2016 Bruce E Saunders