The Greenkeeper

The door to the greenkeeper's shed 

drums it's old frame for the breeze

hard hands like cracked gloves rake

                      thin white stubble

even as early morning bunkers.

          A stoic's neck stiff 

                                     to 30 years at the rake,

and the scythe

its vertebrae fused for careful marshaling
     of the wild west coast into tamed links

creaks

upwards to the silver grey salmon skin of
mercurial Scottish sky,

just in time to see

a tiny Cessna cease chasing
its windmill clouds, cut engines,
and drop

into dark waves
made sudden gold

like Whisky,
in summer's evening sun.