The Shot

by Greg McBride

Nine iron percussion: the click
just after the subtle turn of hips,
the shock of turf that lifts,
plummets, flops away, spent,

the rocketing ball now a speck,
back spin biting the curtained air
against a blue purely blue and fair,
the ball held tenderly in check,

a spherical voluptuary
gliding, sliding, as across
a bed of vapor; and now,
suspended, the dimpled

messenger essays
the undulant green below,
bearing hope for the jolt
of pleasure that travels the round,

approaching the target,
the cup, the flagstick nestled
there, flag risen, flapping taut,
mapping the geographic score,

much as the approach that brings
us to ourselves once more,
feathering the air
                           back down to earth.

Published on June 7, 2010