I cannot think that Death will press his claim 
To snuff you out or put you off your game: 
You’ll still contrive to play your steady round, 
Though hurricanes may sweep the dismal ground, 
And darkness blur the sandy-skirted green
Where silence gulfs the shot you strike so clean. 

Saint Andrew guard your ghost, old David Cleek, 
And send you home to Fifeshire once a week! 
Good fortune speed your ball upon its way 
When Heaven decrees its mightiest Medal Day;
Till saints and angels hymn for evermore 
The miracle of your astounding score; 
And He who keeps all players in His sight, 
Walking the royal and ancient hills of light 
Standing benignant at the eighteenth hole, 
To everlasting Golf consigns your soul. 

Added: May 19 2005 | Viewed: 609 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Siegfried Sassoon
Poem: David Cleek

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