517

A coruscating, flashing 3-wood by the ancient Master
Tore this mighty hole to absolute defeat and shreds
While his puny partner toyed with unravelling disaster
Imperious the stride as on the green the Master treads.

A tiny cough to clear that icy brain before the rolling stroke
Like honey caressing the silky green to seal the sweetest four
And jumping joy engulfed the Master as realization broke
A Birdie snatched with consummate ease, the partner poor.

The fearsome Twelfth, sneering its size and called The Burn
Legendary with its runny brook and brooding bunkers grim
Our Master struts his happy talent and gambles at every turn
His golden reputation sealed by golf sublime, his figure trim.

In this most noble sonnet, should you sense the poet’s awe
Reflect, then turn the page and say, “What was the score?”.

 

This sonnet relives the majestic play on the 517yds hole that stunned the poet.

 

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