Wakefield (Psalm 40)
I waited patiently for the Lord; he inclined and heard my cry. He lifted me up out of the pit, out of the miry clay (Psalm 40 verse 1).
Sun sets in Wakefield,
spilling crimson across the sky.
I look out in regret and remonstrate
with my ignorance and sigh
as the last miners wander home
and the last League players from Featherstone
air their scars to healing time.
Sun sets in Wakefield.
In cathedral pews penitents huddle,
offering prayers and forming intentions
to become wiser and fathom the muddle.
The silent mills await regeneration;
the Town Hall boasts loud entertainment,
but still listed, still elegant.
Sun sets in Wakefield.
In their homes people shuffle,
as I am doing, possessions, but
still have time to boil a kettle
and only partially draw net curtains:
look out at the beautiful and the certain
sunset in Wakefield.
1995