It's rather lovely when you discover that your favorite poem doesn't only belong to you, but can be remembered, by heart, unaided, on a warm California evening in January. For this I am grateful.
Prayer 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. -- Carol Ann Duffy |
1 comment:
Beautiful.
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