being there
it wasn’t about
pouring rain
nor solemn heads
nodding under
dark umbrellas
nor why only
two candles
lit the church
it was all about
you being there
in that darkness
in that eerie glow
as our voices soared
a february morning
thin line of smoke
rises from the farmhouse
terracotta tiles & red bricked
walls
held together by
ancient beams
thick cushions of moss
cover the heavy slate roof
where sparrows twitter
insistently
in the morning
mist gently rises
as frost hugs onto shadows
across the fields
silhouetted sheep
graze on the hill
catkins dangle like worms
from bare branches
where a blackbird heralds
the morning
moments captured
in a glance
a scene from a
hundred winters passed
on this landscape
in the morning
life on lowrys canvas
salford smog
saturates the frame
of terraced houses
distant in their rows
ghostly figures watch
the fever vans collection
half unreal they stand
ephemeral in a way
all community drawn
into the suffering
of someone elses pain
a love-hate intimacy