Over is the game
When God blows the whistle
But the timing’s always wrong

However long and late in coming
However tragically short:

The keeper’s arm rising to the incoming ball
Or the ball flying right for the goal with the keeper turning late

Suddenly one sees each life
However strange and twisted

All the hopes, ambitions, fears, desires
Instantly chipped out

Chiselled into
Revealing shape

The man, the woman, child
Hale or hurt, privileged, differently-abled

Black, blue, brown, yellow, red
Or whoever beyond, between

Inside-out or outside in

Each motive, thought,
Finally, now blazing clear

(Meditation on my father’s funeral pyre, on his death anniversary.)