Stiff flags and gold foil.
Everything else, black and white.
With not a green in sight.
Boring and dusty with fuzzy transmissions that ended with beeps.
And Michelin men bouncing round wearing cyclops aviators,
That reflected us sitting on our blue dot as we rose above Crozier’s Bunker.
They came prepared though:
Two balls and a club.
They’d even brought a buggy too.
With big bouncy tyres made out of sieves.
All out for a one armed drive.
But the ball went for miles,
and miles,
and miles.
Compensation for all the interminable hours
spent watching a million other bunkers pass
Beneath the floating tin can clubhouse
Whose members waited patiently for the others to finish their round.
Next to stiff flags and gold foil.