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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.

Poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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