An Image Of Golf From Mid-Winter Poem by Colin Pickett

Gnarled 5-Irons
and askew putters
plagued the
battle field.

Aluminum bones glinted in the August sunset.
White mortars littered the barbed-wire boundaries.
Green blood flowed, as sand covered gashes with its
absorbant adhesiveness.

Gallant tanks with
grizzled veterans sped
across the
battle field.

They looked for a weakness in the enemy.
They cursed God, but mostly nature.
They drowned in their poisons, and
they choked on their fumes.

The fury of this war maddened their minds.