House Martin Over the 18th

On a very warm early September Sunday

He’s down at head height

Soaring and tipping a wing over hallowed grass

The last green on the *Old Course

Signing off above a Japanese head

He writes an elegy for this summer from the Norse gods

Wastes nothing over the itchy curtain

That hides a jacket and joyless wonder of a man

That will brook no Japanese guest or Fifer

On the MEMBER’S ONLY benches in front;

And he will not sear through that glass as he glides

To melt golf’s rule masters privilege

Nor become as a Stuka and rail them on to buses

To estates half an hour away

where cashmere garments and hundreds spent on metal sticks are

As distant as the sun.


*The Old Course-golf course in St Andrews, Fife home of golf.


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