Sunday, March 09, 2008

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 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 ⎯
Rocakall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.


August said...

It seemed impossible to choose which of her poems to post. They are all beautiful and honest.


Glamourpuss said...

This is my favourite in Mean Time, and one of my favourite poems full stop. Especially as I used to listen to the Shipping Forcast on Radio 4 whne insomnia struck.


david santos said...

Hello, August!
Excellent poem!
I loved this blog.
Have a good day.

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Anonymous said...

I really love this poem. Super skilful the flow of words, yet every poem of hers is a masterpiece.