As she started to sing, I told her we had to wait for the Big Fiddle player. She did not wait. As she sang, birds came close. It sounded like someone was killing a pig. As her singing continued, the seagulls left and moved out to sea. Even the fish moved away from the shoreline.
She then noticed a big ferryboat over at the North Sydney wharf. I told her it went to Newfoundland and that the people over there were very friendly and liked good singers. So I drove her over to the boat and dropped her off.
It was a Saturday I could gladly forget.
Rowe Rudderham
Lush they were as I walked them in every corner of all the months. Some in thoughts as was the case most days in winter, and some as they were under the golden sun of summer.
In winter’s cold, and we both being clothed, me bundled under a layer of cloth and leather, and they, under a shimmering blanket of white, caught then as we were, in the brightness of the day, with shadows of the woods that were always so near, casting their reflections on us.
Tall those shadows were, as I thought of my life in kind in that moment, my fairway. And as the ground beneath my feet lay frozen in time, there was no sound of birds, or people, or things, just me and a golfers dream.
Kenneth J. Beaton