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Crazy Golf
That balmy summer holiday
by the seaside when I was nine
and woke but wasn't really awake
crying from deep in a dream
'I can't get it in the hole!'
not knowing the words
until they
came out
only the desperate bursting
of shame.
I'd been playing crazy golf,
hitting balls up slopes,
round barriers, down chutes,
through the gates of fantasy castles,
anything to make torturous
the few crooked yards
to metal flags marking holes
numbered 1 to 18.
Now 'in the middle of my life'
in fear and hope
I start the back nine
of a miniature course
designed to test and amuse.
I focus as now I roll
this ball, this ball, towards
its hole, will it fall - it teeters
on the lip - will it fall?
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