The lonely golfer.

As early as the rising sun,
Hurriedly packing gear indeed in great fun;
At times awaiting silently for the break of day,
As of old close to the threshing floor for hay.

Each grass blade still unbent by human will,
A virgin spectacle that is full of thrill;
But that later on with the passing of time,
End up with multitudes visiting the shrine.

Silvery and bejewelled tiny dots of dew,
Perching on tiny tips embellish the view;
Of a smooth wide green expanse,
Down where once the Turk advance.

Roaming the maze with glee and joy,
Minding the few others in pursuit of same ploy;
Grieving hither and thither up and down,
Concluding at times with a nasty frown.

Dreams in colour, or just in black and white,
In broad daylight or deep at night;
Playing consistently the Tiger shots
But alas at such early hours few take notes.

Few can blame the Columbus belief,
That Mother Sun moves so wide to our relief;
Perky rays penetrate the Maiden Bedroom’s Hole,
With great delight, gusto and a satisfying role.

From other spots at seasonal times,
The fiery blinding ball climbs with the early chimes;
That echo their tolls from distant godly shrines,
To summon the faithful to devotion and holy mimes.

Toxic fumes, noise hustle and bustle,
From peripheral arterial roads and mechanical muscle;
Cross the stubble with persistent uncouth manners,
Causing havoc to game and latecomers.

All the Nevilles, Normans, Davids, Johns and the rest,
Share the early morning gleeful zest;
The hard working grounds men they all greet,
Minding their hard tasks routinely on the beat.

A heavenly corner site amidst an Island’s lore,
Provides at times a multicoloured backdrop to players and all;
Whether on courts, course, pitches, fields and bars,
Endeavour jealously to treasure without ever any mars.

jc

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