Poetry Please - The Third Hole

The Third Hole

Plink! (like hammer tapping a bottle of coke)

The sweet-spot of the titanium wood

Propels the ball further than you thought it could.

You strike a pose as you finish the stroke

And before it lands you pick up the tee

Like the Tour pro's do when they're satisfied

(a dismissive touch with a challenge implied)

And replace your club insouciantly.

The fairway grass is short, your stride is strong.

The fragrance of the pine and blossom trees,

Their dancing shadows in the summer breeze,

The variations of the thrush in song

Serenade you as you approach your ball

Still ninety-something yards from the third hole.

The nine-iron or the pitching wedge? You choose

The nine and hope you clear the gaping trap

And make the sloping green without mishap.

But then an agony of doubt ensues.

Perhaps the pitching wedge with greater loft,

(if you could hit it hard and catch it right

imparting fizzing back-spin and great height)

Would make the distance and the landing soft?

You swing the nine-iron, thin it, and it flies

At head-height curving downwards towards the sand

But clips the bunker lip and loops to land

Below the flag and runs out up the rise.

You thank the gods of golf for mercy, but

Your fluke has left a fearsome down-hill putt.

With disbelief you contemplate the slope.

That ball defies the laws of gravity

On grass as slick as polished porphyry.

Your only option is to nudge and hope.

You settle in your stance. Your putter rests

Behind the ball. You pause. Take careful aim.

Head still. You tap. Potential energy

Released. It rolls too rapidly. Recklessly

It hurtles. Abandoned. This stupid game!

But wait! Could it? It's heading for the hole....

And....yes! it drops. Now confidence floods back.

Of course it dropped. You set it on its track.

An easy game. You never thought you'd fail.

You shrug and smile, but hide that inward glee,

As if you often make a birdie three.