Prayer by Carol Ann Duffy

I first saw this on the underground. My husband later gave it to me in poster form and it has hung in my studio ever since. I still love it and the way it speaks of the sacred in the mundane.

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 Ann Duffy