An old friend

[happybat]

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.

by Carol Anne Duffy

For this atheist, the idea of prayer is interesting, unsettling, ambigious. I'm not sure if that's the only reason I like this poem - there's a lot else to admire about the fluid rhythm, natural, unforced rhyme scheme, and that quietly wonderful final couplet.

Maybe it's just seeing it written and thinking - yes, I've felt that.

Comments

[itchyfidget.livejournal.com]

Another atheist here, and yet there is a thankful prayer, of sorts, in so many of the things I see every day.