Larkin

Heard him on the Roberts’ radio,
And dissecting him… who else but Motion?
Someone who loved life despite the
Gloom and prediction;

A man who let religion seep, die
Through his fingers:
Palm sweat, the black of his nails,
The soapy rinse of gathered dirt
Entombed under the steel of his
Hurried watch:
It all ran…
Slowly dousing Holy water
With streams of mudiness,
Mingling, trickling on to the ocean

And running free…
A curious hope that even he
Himself – perhaps – could not see.