Late Kick-Off

I friend told me today, that

one of our own is dying, and

realisation seeps stealthily

through to my core in

a dark eureka moment

that punches my chest,

old people die not us

not one from our old street

and him not seventy summers,

our recent reunion still fresh,

endless memories tumble

pell-mell,

so recently re-found to be

lost again so soon,

it would be so simple

to feel old, life wasted,

God’s waiting room has

many vacant chairs,

so fancifully, we hatch

a plan, a midnight immolation

on the football centre-circle

him in his nomad’s shirt

dirty boots on top of the pyre

feet facing goal

it’s how he’d want to go

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/22