There’s no salvation
round the special-offer shelves.
A rainbow’s end won’t root itself
in a road on an inter-war estate.
Don’t ask for miracles
from the names enscrolled
on the gate of an outskirts park.
There’s no solution
behind oncomers’ eyes,
no spell will be cast or broken
by the mutterings
in a Shop-2-Go.
Don’t hope to find a deity
in any short-winded fight of sun
or a mist as it threads
bits and ends of dawn together
and snugs them
round dirty evergreens
or a weeping window
where all the houses end.
The unearthed album
won’t spread its pages
of sand and shadow
and off-centre smiles
like wings poised to enfold.
The mislaid friend
winkled out of the ether
won’t of a sudden body out
and run at you full tilt
with a smile to unbruise
half a lifetime.
Now you lay you down to sleep
by all means pray…just bear in mind
that whatever feels your words
might right then be embroiled
in their own rips and punctures –
or stricken by relentlessness
and so unable evermore
to spring a single mercy.