It's hard to see in the dark

But your eyes grew accustomed

To the gloom of the winning line

Short odds on the grey market

On foggy days in November

Through the mists of September

You peered at the finishing line

Anything less than a head and you're in

On the flat or the hurdles.

But as you tried to spot the winner - 

Your eyes failed again and again - 

Horses, cards, roulette, dice -

You realized the odds are as stacked

As they were in life. But by then you'd lost

Money, house, wife.

I never found you feeling

Sorry for yourself,

Maybe you did alone at night,

When nights in the western desert 

Came back to taunt you.

You knew you were lucky to survive

'Used up all my luck in one go'

I remember you saying

Just before you died.

When I closed your eyes

I said 'Good luck'

Strange thing for an atheist son

To say to an atheist father:

But, you never know.