David Cleek

I CANNOT think that Death will press his claim

To snuff you out or put you off your game:

You?  ll still contrive to play your steady round

Though hurricanes may sweep the dismal ground

And darkness blur the sandy-skirted green 5

Where silence gulfs the shot you strike so clean.

Saint Andrew guard your ghost old David Cleek

And send you home to Fifeshire once a week!

Good fortune speed your ball upon its way

When Heaven decrees its mightiest Medal Day; 10

Till saints and angels hymn for evermore

The miracle of your astounding score;

And He who keeps all players in His sight

Walking the royal and ancient hills of light

Standing benignant at the eighteenth hole 15

To everlasting Golf consigns your soul.