by Helen Mort


Give us good days.

Days unspectacular but adequate:

the weather neither calm nor wild,

your coat zipped nearly to the top,


a silver thermos cooling in your bag,

the sky at Bamford reddening, as if

embarrassed by its own strange reach

and day-old, pipe-smoke clouds.


Above the Hope cement works,

crows wheel arcs of guarded flight

and when you touch the rock

your fingers hold.