Selection 10 of
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The Linksby Nancy ClarkFull-armed to play the links, as toward them Beat the ocean's constant waves and roar. The links of Ireland, nature made, thick gorsed And brambled, blown, and carved with seagrassed dunes Extend a fearsome hospitality. Trek, they do, of course, to play the game Down footworn paths and up the steep inclines Down fairways lean, and into bunkers deep. Through niggling rain or sudden storm or wind Of force to bend a shot, they march ahead And press their will and skill to stay the course. Search, they will, aye, through the endless rough For errant balls they vowed were struck true-lined And safe--on holes with names to ponder: Giant's Grave, The Narrows, Heaven's Highway Purgatory or Calamity, Each offering hazards and humility. Pause, they must, indeed, along the way To sense with reverence their sky-blessed track, Strong coast, wild landscape in demand of awe. Then grand, it is, to celebrate their play Assess both luck and loss, and sure, As waves still come to shore, return they will. |
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