Scarecrow

Coming to the thirteenth green,
The strangest thing I’d ever seen
There, hanging limply in the breeze,
A crow was strung, dead, in the trees

Now what was this, some Wicca rite,
Or there to give the crows a fright?
A warning that, to mess the green
Meant ending up as some obscene
Cadaver, strung up on a limb.

Who created this scarecrow grim?
The phantom green keeper - it must be him
At night when crows have gone to sleep,
Along the ruined greens, he'll creep
Then hang a fresh killed black bird high,
To stop them swooping from the sky
And digging up his sacred plot,
He leaves the warning there to rot.

The black wings, wind induced will flutter,
Putting off the bravest putter.

Ode to Temps

The morning was a jewel
Fairways glistnin’ frizzed with frost
And the sky was full of crystal
Should be good then, fingers crossed

So we crunched down from the clubhouse
Took our place upon the tee
Warmed up nice and easy
This was just the place to be

Al struck his ball, a beauty
Watched it soar toward the sun
Then I fired mine down the middle
Saw it bounce and saw it run

Off we steamed, our hot breath streaming
Down the fairway to our balls
Crowds of crows were flocking, cheering
We could hear their laughing calls

Second shots we played superbly
Firing high and straight and long
Bouncing off the frost spiked fairway
Scaring all the black crow throng

Once again we walked on chatting
Starting well on this par five
Glad to be out in the sunshine
Feeling good to be alive

Then, we couldn’t see the flagstick
Looking round our panic grows
“Where’s the hole, the green, the pin Al?”
“Its behind you” mocked the crows.

There it was a ten-foot circle
Cut all cold and white and mean
Fifty yards back from our great shots
A BLOODY TEMPORARY GREEN.