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


we turn away from work,
inhale others’ gardens,
look out at iridescent birds,
shapes cast by the sun

Sometimes, we ignore our chores,
cycle the distant suburbs,
look at how another tenth live,
eat exotic foods on the streets

Sometimes, we forgo the car,
ride the ferries and trains,
look for treasures in labyrinthine shops,
play tourist for a day

Sometimes, we shun the inner life,
chase the little white ball,
look right, look left  (up at that thieving crow),
rarely straight down the middle

Sometimes, we blow the budget,
wine and dine on the Quay,
watch the passing parade,
the city at play

Sometimes, we forget ourselves,
lie outside in the dark,
look up, and beyond
to the edge of the universe

and close our eyes
in peace