My mother donned her glasses
And read a poem in a singsong
Way; that taught in school
Off Boy’s Lane, Halifax, near the mill
That worked out her bones.
The voice she had now’s gone
And its cracked resistance
To the world, now shouts from
Banners of the Right unfurled
But they are wrong. Fear fosters
Hate, but that was not she.
A tight and strangled love
Can sometimes in these latter days
In red hope run brilliant,
Vein oozing from a mineral stone.
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