Prayer

Sundown, last night.

 

Looking down, over the sea fog, and Ailsa Craig, and the Firth of Clyde. Distillery at the coast.

 

From my garden,

South Carrick Hills

SW Scotland

 

 

 

 

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

Done