... by Carol Ann Duffy ...
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 minims 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
~ Rockall, Malin, Dogger, Finisterre refer to shipping forecast ... I absolutely adore this poem ~ the idea of something more divine being at work, when you are at a loss, not knowing where to turn, when to think, what to pray, how to dream ...
