Words crack

Here’s a poem called “The Prayer”, by 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 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.

I'm grateful to my friend, Martin Cavender, for pointing this out to me. As you may know, sometimes what Carol Ann Duffy calls the radio's prayer is my companion in the hours of darkness. 


I love that truth: "Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer utters itself." 
So thank you, Poet Laureate. (I hope you don't mind my quoting you.)