by Clarkson Wroe

Created on: February 25, 2009

The Glorious Twelfth'

We Drive at Dawn'

To paraphrase John Mills'

No fallen youth

Nor heroes of war

But four middle aged men

Set forth on golfing tour.

Through Harrogate, Ripon and Durham City

To Scotland home of golf

Past Gormley's sexless Angel'

Large of wings and small of head

Up The Great North Road

Like Caesar's Legions, long lain dead.

The Tour arrives in Edinburgh, the weather constant foul

Frozen hands, faces chapped and

Feet as cold as Titanic's deadly berg

A climate for the clinically insane

The Club House fires beckon

And whiskey thaws the pain.

A week gone by, the final round

On North Berwick's famous links

An icy sleet a biting blast from

Tee off through eleven

Then on the twelfth a miracle

Ra's product sent from heaven.

The haar is lifted suddenly and

Scotland is in view

Breathtaking in its glory

Waves fragment on an empty beach

As Ben Sayers spirit awakens

And the hole is now within our reach.

That glorious twelfth with

Four puts holed, four birdies eagerly carded

Joy unrestrained with nature joining in

The Curlew swoop, the Black Gulls scream

At well played shots in a Caledonian sun

The English golfers dream.

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