Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer
Utters itself. So a woman will lift
Her head from the sieve of her hands and stare
At the minim sung by a tree, a sudden gift.
Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth
Enters our hearts, that small familiar pain.
Then a man will stand stock still, hearing his youth
In the distant latin chanting of a train.
Pray for us now, Grade 1 piano scales
Console the lodger looking out across
A Midlands town, then dusk and someone calls
A child's name as though they named their loss.
Darkness outside: Inside the radio's prayer
Rockall, Malin, Dogger, Finisterre
[Carol Anne Duffy]
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Beautiful, thanks for sharing. I love Carol Ann Duffy.
ReplyDelete