Becalmed

The yellow flag marks the last of the outward nine.  High above, just as the first spots of rain arrive, I sit and listen.  Waves turn gently over sand.  Remorseless, rhythmical.  The linnet chirps, and the yeldrick begs for more cheese.  Of wind there is scarce a breath.

 

And the gentle roll of the surf plays on.

I had arrived on the shore path; descended the cliff to Jenny's Well.  The tide was in, but far from full.  No rock clambering required as I stepped gently from the beach to wander from behind the 9th green, past the 10th tee.  To take the path that will lead me to the clifftop.

Fortunately all of these paths are blessed with benches; old men can rest weary bones, catch breaths.  And stop and stare.  Listen.

The only person on the course this side of the Three Kings, trudges through knee-high rough.  Not for him the 8th fairway.  He gives up and heads straight for the 9th tee.  Or perhaps my path aloft.  Maybe searching for lost balls, rather than trying to hit them.

 

From the top the line of the burn - the burn that emerges behind the 9th green and disperses across sand to sea - is marked by clouds of pink lanterns.  They dance in the thermals.  In winter the burn had no competition.  The deer hopped lightly across.  Just a few months later and those lanterns dangle from 4ft high stems.

 

Indian Balsam.  Invasive Beast.

And the gentle roll of the surf plays on.  As the blackbird sings.

Bright Pink lanterns of Himalayan

Balsam dangle in the burn's path

from clifftop to tee and green.

The deer looks on aghast,

her path now overgrown 

invasive from

burn to beach

and sea.

Beast.