Our Lady of Atheists, broken from hope,

I prayed to You; somehow that helped me cope.

Mad shot in the dark. Much like my verse.

But all that white night bad didn't turn worse.

I ask for a young man with rings round his eyes.

No stock to take care of, he struggles to rise

Till night yields to night with hardly a seam -

Asleep or awake, it replays like a dream:

The needles of truth in the haystacks of crap,

The watching slow death creep over the map.

The tact and compassion the bureaucrat wields,

The speedwell and silence that strangle his fields.

His wife's hell's his talk. It goes round and round.

All flesh is brass. They sold out the pound.

When all's said and done what was done was what spun.

She waters his whisky. She's buried his gun.

The sun or the moon is over Great Mell.

Some Canada geese are scouting the fell.

It's Beltane so increase is honoured with fire.

The trumpet of smoke lifts itself higher.

Last Star in the Darkness, Shot Silk of the Kine;

There's other Madonnas but You are all mine.

Our Lady of Atheists, I know you're not there.

That doesn't matter. Answer my prayer.