The saving grace

She had a look on her face
that invited you to
look at her face
she was the priestess that men would
confess to,
a saint for the travails we’d been through.

The steelyards had peeled yards
from men’s backs
and the pits had killed more,

The mill towns were pulled down
and turned into something bijou,
only the ghosts remain.

I only feather by these things
lightly each new leaf brings a
blank page to write on.

The pain’s still the same as
it was yesterday,
everything’s gone but it won’t
go away,
and I stay because where else would
I go?

The priestess says,
‘the devil you know is that
which brings you comfort
which brings me no comfort
however true it may be.

I write in the diary,
‘no entries today’
and I stay
because where else would I go?

© 2018, John Smallshaw.