A poem in memory of Seve Ballesteros
April 9, 1957 – May 7, 2011
The Final Hole
Gusts railed against his olive skin,
Spaniard, eyes ablaze with desire to win.
An imperious walk to his life’s final green,
A rapier smile, eyes dark and keen.
Golf’s true Matador,
Hair dark and wild,
Steel descends on ball,
This rarest of men heeds glory’s call.
Resplendent in blue and white,
Spirit soaring like a kite.
Fifteen feet betwixt him and heaven,
The crowd is hushed,
A copper head floats above the blades of grass,
And meets its object as pure as newly blown glass.
The ball drops,
The smile erupts,
A fist pumps and silence breaks,
A wave of noise engulfs the scene.
Severiano stands again master of his final green.
By Matthew Moore