The 7 Iron

A perfect lie, a new beginning.
Easy approach, time for the 7 Iron.
My favourite tool, my loving lovely companion.
Grip the hozel, slides out a rapier.
One-hundred fifty, seven, one.
Narrow, clean, perfect, go.
Draw the line, step up, the feel is right.
It fits, the head, the grass, sitting
feather-light behind the ball.
My hands, leather to the grip.
This feeling I’ve felt before. Unlike
any other, because my soul feels this,
my seven.
No hesitation, no need. No feeling,
no impact.
Because I don’t need to feel that part.
I just know.
It was a perfect lie.