Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer
utters itself. So, a woman will lift
her head from the sieve of her hand 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 I 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.
