Buttershaw, South Bradford
Buttershaw, her love spreads. On
summer days, melted and translucent,
she's a glistened river. Her grace, a
keenness for peace, can hush restless
children to fall asleep on filthy sofas, a
sighed drift down to Mandalay's shore.
In the churches of Sunday morning,
she'll pray for purity, tinned fruit and
custard. For those as broke as power,
she'll steal from the shop girls on Boltby,
who are always blind eyed, smiling, kind.
They know that hunger was never a crime.
Just after sunset, she'll ignite a single
monochrome firework. Here come the
heartbroken hooded eyes longing for relief.
This, the only love when hours ink a day black,
and blacker still, hastening moonless chemical
nights that drown her deeply in Mandalay's dreams.