Rounds in resilience

It’s her little joke –
every round is stroke –
the way she hits that ball
you wouldn’t know she’s had two

bionic man, quadruple
by-passed, defibrillated, has me
in stitches

at 80, his game’s
got more heart
than mine

then, on the 13th,

seasoned traveller
confides myeloma’s no
handicap to chipping
away at the children’s

golf’s putting
this stupid game
in perspective

but it ain’t no Sunday


She wanders not lonely as a cloud

but angry as a dust devil,

with judgement cloaked in blaming shroud

slowburn of anger, febrile.


What fate befell that sweet, sharp mind

now plagued with thoughts of violence

to spawn sensibilities so unsound

and increasingly mere silence?


What confounding ills did rear

this sullen, raging presence?

A once bright light, no longer here,

her love, an evanescence.