On Francis Quimet...

He was his father's last hope
he was his father's last chance
to deliver a 72 amidst rain
so he looked at nothing but trained
his eyes only on the greenish soggy plain
and the hazards...
he was not worried about his part...

he was not in the course to beat
anyone... only compatriots he did meet
but all he had to do was to overcome
his father's laboured eyes and his tired mom...

And then there was Harry
his first teacher...idol...who with the club him married...
the club...the brassie...
he looked at his eyes...
on verge of a defeat but proud
Harry was his first teacher and idol no doubt...

And the rain was cruelly hard
and he had always played against the mud...
he remembered in his child form
when his father...a labourer...ploughed and sweated on
and his mother would sew old clothes...
he had his eyes...
on Harry...
and Harry Vardon
alone...
the stylist...
the greatest brit golfer...

and this Harry stood opposite
and across the busy street
the Quimet cottage had surely his mom
she might be feverishly tensed and dumbed...

and he took his stance
his club his only chance...
to refurbish his dad with a hope...
he took the air and landed his amateurish stroke...
and the 17th looked a long;really long ride
for the ball to travel calm and fine
but it had already followed the course
it went through all till it dropped into the hole...

'amateurs never win an open!'
that shout stopped all of a sudden
and hats and flowers flew
just flew in the air...
Francis Quimet made it to the heavenly lair...

Harry also there stood
his teacher...the idol...
he with happy tears stood
and clapped at the rise of a star...