Tossing up grass shavings
before his approach shot
to gauge the wind at the par four fifth
Then taking another pinch to put into his pipe
The stroll to the green is a time for reflection.
Penning a poem at the eleventh fairway
declaiming a passage from the third stanza
 at the thirteenth tea
Six iron? or seven?
Takes up his pitching wedge.
How splendor collects in dimples,
 beauty in divets
 insecticide in cleats
Three caddies round out a foursome
Never disappointed to shank his tee-shot.
Almost happy to land in the rough.
At the fifteenth hole, sharp dogleg.
 Transported by the trap
  at the back of the green –
  combing the sand like Shigemori
while three ruddy-faced contractors
with the afternoon off
take practice strokes back on the fairway.

He leaves his golfball in the trap,
 an island.

A scratch golfer? A scorecard full of poetry –
What is your handicap?