We stood on the height above the Tay
Looking down on fields below
When my old school teacher said to me
Setting a puzzle so
Why do they always put the gate
In the muddiest part of the field?
Took me a moment to cotton on
A smile made my face to glow
And Swilcan Bridge
In the news today
The exact same problem shows
They’ve put the bridge in the very spot
Where the golfers feet will go
And verdant turf is turned to mud
They paved it out with stone
A howl of protest rents the air
Tradition let out a groan
A beaten path is beaten
It marks the march of time
The feet of famous golfers
Imprinted in that slime
I guess some matting would suffice
When the rainy season comes
But a beaten path is a beaten path
And beats us every time
Brian Fahy
7 February 2023
Erris Poetry 