The Ghost Of Bobby Jones. (Rhyme )
The mist had cleared, when he first appeared,
By moonlight good fortune met.
A life after death, a ghostly breath,
That I shall not forget.
From off the sea, over St Andrews tee,
A cold wind strongly blew.
I watched in awe, as his well struck ball,
Into the darkness flew.
The ball ran long, and smooth gliding on,
A pale and graceful light.
Who paused to turn, at the Swilcan burn,
Soft fading from my sight.
I hastened after, drawn on by spirit laughter,
And the knowledge of his game.
To hear a gallery, somewhere close to me,
As they called out his name.
From the bunker of hell, he played out well,
By the road hole drifting, with darkness lifting.
I watched his putt roll in.
His last drive sounding, on firm ground bounding,
Towards the valley of sin.
The last hole played, he turned to wave,
And speak in mellow tones.
" Goodbye" said he, it was the last I'd see,
Of the ghost of Bobby Jones
Bobby Jones won the original grand slam of golf in 1930-which was the British and American amateur open championships and the British and American professional open championships.
He is the only golfer to have ever achieved this-he was a supreme being from a golden era-the poem recognises his achievement in winning at St Andrews-and it is the result of a dream I had after reading
Triumphant Journey by **** Miller, the saga of Bobby Jones.
I was on holiday in Fife in Scotland staying near to St Andrews golf club, This was my first attempt at poetry.