That impossibly high-spinning ball,
is a boot-powered upward swoop
propelled with passion into the whitening sky,
lifting my heart with its impudent disdain
for earthís greedy need to draw everything to her.
Yet despite the skill and concentration
applied to that leather egg,
the innate unpredictability of its form
means that, on returning groundwards,
itís the luck of the bounce
that decides which way the ball,
and the game, goes.
Like the chance encounters of sperm and egg
which created all our beginnings,
lifeís inherent randomness invites us
to give up all illusions of control,
and accept what comes our way
with grace and celebration.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Steve Garett
would be pleased to hear