Across this green world, into the twilight,

walking the fairways with your son on the back nine,

your bag of clubs knocking together,

a hat and a glove, yourself and the wide world,

reminding each other that you learn as much

            from the bad shots as the good.

 

If this land were not real, we’d swear

            we were treading paradise.

If this were not a game, we’d assume

            it was our life’s journey.

An immense playing field and a minuscule goal,

the rhythm of your swing tracing a harmonious arc,

banishing care.

Muscle memory and swing thoughts.

Somehow, there is nothing lacking.

 

Teeing off across water on the final hole,

both of us finding the green,

putting for par as the sun dips below trees,

looking out across burnished fairways,

tending the pin while your son taps the ball

            toward the hole.

 

© by Timothy Walsh.

Used with the author’s permission.