When the sunlight’s burning hot,
and geckos come out to bathe,
golfers drive straight to shade
of the parasol on the veranda.
When it takes the patience of drying
paint to settle the longing
for a double espresso
with boiling water on the side,
there’s time to embrace the rough, the double bogies, the lost balls, the unplayable lies, the bunkers that await
the adventure of the first hole,
and the prospect of that hole-in-one I can’t afford.
The clubhouse in Palmares
looks over the water hazard,
the Atlantic Ocean
flat as the undulating green of the second hole.
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 