David Cleek
Siegfried Sassoon 1886 (Matfield) – 1967 (Heytesbury)
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
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;
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,
To everlasting Golf consigns your soul.
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on April 26, 2023
- 37 sec read
- 37 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | AABBCC DDEEFFGGHH |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 714 |
Words | 125 |
Stanzas | 2 |
Stanza Lengths | 6, 10 |
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"David Cleek" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 13 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/34866/david-cleek>.
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