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 truthenters our hearts, that small familiar pain;then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youthin the distant Latin chanting of a train.Pray for us now. Grade 1 piano scalesconsole the lodger looking out acrossa Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone callsa child's name as though they named their loss.Darkness outside. Inside, the radio's prayer -Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.
–Carol Ann Duffy