The 18th Hole Poem

More about The 18th Hole Poem

The sun sets low, the day is done,
On the golf course, the 18th hole, the final run.
A golfer stands, club in hand,
Eyes on the green, a challenging demand.
A fairway stretched, so lush and green,
A flag waving, a distant scene.
A water hazard, a bunker wide,
The golfer takes a deep breath, ready to stride.
The swing begins, with precision and might,
The ball takes flight, a beautiful sight.
It soars through the air, with grace and poise,
Aiming for the green, the golfer's choice.
The ball lands softly, with a gentle hop,
Rolling towards the pin, a promising stop.
The golfer watches with bated breath,
As it rolls closer, closer to the death.
The ball slows down, teasingly near,
The golfer's heart races, filled with fear.
A final putt, a steady hand,
Guiding the ball, as it obeys command.
The ball drops in, with a satisfying sound,
The golfer grins, victory is found.
The 18th hole, a challenge met,
A moment to treasure, one to never forget.
Cheers and claps, from friends around,
A celebration of success profound.
The golf course fades into the night,
The 18th hole, a memorable sight.