You grasp a wood
You swing with rhythm
The connection is good
The ball sails into the air
Next time….
Forgettable
Cringing
Poor.
You still clinger on to the memory of that stroke.
This fuels your imagination.

You grasp an iron
You envisage the shot
The execution is perfect
The ball arcs and lands, somehow magnetised to the green.
This memory is again stored.
Next time…
Disjointed
Clouded
Forgettable
You await the next connection that will rekindle the desire

You address a putt
The future is predicted
You rewind and play
You hear a rattle
You’ve hit the next rung
Next time…
Your head is held
Ignominy rules
But still the light flickers
Never extinguished, always present.

Is this prescience in vain?
Only time will tell,
As in life, nothing is certain