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Poem	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.
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