Lowry’s bride
Never was, never to be
Don’t allow yourself to dream
For the lonesome whistle
For the chime of the factory bell.
Chimney stack smog
Fog-
bound horizons,
Slate grey skies
Are the boundaries of your world,
On earth.
Soles of your shoes
As hard as the pews
In church,
When you bring
The communion wine to your lips
It could very well be blood,
And you sense the extra burden
On your child-bearing hips,
Recall in the same instant
His unkempt hair
Stubbled chin,
Sunken cheeks
Neglected thin
Lips
Scored in
A deeply carved brow
Red-ringed eyes
Hollow and piercing,
Imagined
Cries
Cries
Of the dead canary
Your youngest found
In the coal scuttle
Brought into the house
To play around
With.
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