THE MINERS' CATHEDRAL, SALFORD

In a quiet spot on the edge of town
A nineteenth century church wallows
In indifference. Children drown
And are buried noisily elsewhere,

But here the congregation stoops
Beneath ornate Tractarian arches.
As another light goes out upstairs,
Smoke swabs corporeal cares.

Only a handful of shoes maintain
A movement, shuffling shapes
Under gothic wood. The rain
Spatters harmlessly outside.