Ronald A. Downie
A little damp from dew, but deep green,
When the small army of golfers tee up.
Mowers and groomers at work already
Before dim daylight fully breaks brightly.
Players armed with back packs of clubs
Assemble in spite of last night's lateness.
Still, they think, they're in their prime time
Since they're captured, caught in hopes.
Of the old school, our son's one of those soldiers
Who makes his mark by golf stoke or loud voice.
Crushes his drive, as he pin points his irons,
His putting, he contends, is a thing of beauty.
Ageless are combatants who fumble score cards
Before they calculate the distance needing to hit,
Before they contend with ball flight destination,
Before their ageless aching back disrupts a swing.
But, it's the grand leveling act born of score card
Comparison, at the 19th hole, where dreams collapse.
From the quiet of hardly whispering during a putt,
To now, when the bravado of shout echoes so loud,
And fermentation found in bottles soothes their lips.
Bound, as they've become, competition ties the knot
As sports has done for many passing generations.
It is still, the thrill of success, that counts for duffers.
Their mantra : hit the ball long and hit it straight, but don't hit the wee, white ball so often. Putts do count.
From hollows to hills, from in sand to on greens, we hear them bellow loud their thrills and sad agonies.
Well Ronald, our son, these words are for you on your Birthday in this beautiful part of September, 2013.
Some times we need diversion from the scares of life so we can keep on trudging up the cold, dank road.
With All Our Love,
Happy Birthday !
Mom and Dad