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.