Justin swept up the driveway
He skipped in through the door
Disinter them clubs , boyo,
We’re on the tee at four.
Away down then, by Moygannon
Alongside Narrow Water Shore
Swing left at the Cooley Inn
In no time there’s Greenore
Go easy now, past the Gantry
There is an air about this place
Harking back to an older time
Before the damn rat race.
Slow down the crazy backswing
Put your head in a cool space
Here is an Irish Shangri-la
It moves at a slower pace.
The first, broad as a runway
A three club breeze straight into
Down the shaft with Bertha
Right at the stick she flew
Follow that, young fella
It’s been a month or two
But class, they say, is permanent
Let’s see what you can do?
Justin took his metal three
And sent it down the pipe
Through the green, thirty feet
Not a puritan in sight
But the greens they were lightning quick
We could not contain our cries
Talk about a glass staircase
Augusta, dry your eyes.!
By god the greens demand respect
You must set your putter down.
Then caress it in your fingers
As soft as eiderdown.
And the ball must be dying
As it wanders to the lip
Or you could run past further
Then a tour bus on a trip.
Then chatting with a three ball
It was pure delight.
Recalling how McManus
Played the monster hole at Bright.
Three woods and a bicycle
The green still not in sight.
We were both still laughing
Did I clear the pond? Not quite!
And turning away in anguish
Behold, what did I see
The Mournes in all their glory
Smiling down on foolish me.
For though I’d seen them often
From many arts before
There is no vantage point in Ireland
To match the sixth tee in Greenore.
The hogsback was it fourteen?
I was on it twice and off
Justin calmly took his birdie
‘You just throw it high and soft’.
And at the next he rifled one
‘Just call me McIlroy’
He will soon be hard to live with
His hand- action is sheer joy
.
And then on up to seventeen
We are both out past the stone
Where is that bloody four iron?
James left in Enniscrone.
And while we talk a great game
The stroke count’s mounting fast.
Sure as long as they were stylish
We’ll gaze through tinted glass.
The last then, a Cathedral
Be brave and play a fade
Slide her out around the trees
‘Stay out of it’. I prayed.
A nine iron to the final green
Played high up on the blade.
To the approval of an audience
In the bar, on lemonade
Out with the wand then,
Twenty feet to go
Rap her on the sweet spot
Putt for money drive for show.
She’s rolling now, she’s tracking
Takes the borrow and slows up.
Does her little horseshoe
Then, obediently,down the cup.
And so to you, you innocents
Who know not of this great game
You merely scratch the surface
Your existential quest is vain
For there’s poetry, passion, beauty
And other things, hard to score
There ,beneath the long woman’s grave
On the fairways of Greenore
beatriceanddante 