Golfing in Greenore

 greenore greenore-golf-club old greenore

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


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