Blessing

There is a god who tends
the empty corners of public places
the spaces where no one goes
the gaps between buildings
the lonely strip
where two roads meet
and no one stays.

Bless us in those empty spaces
where a young woman –
whose grandson is old now
and lives in Nova Scotia –
threw crumbs to the hens
and a young man
hauled seaweed to the lazy bed.

Bless us where their song
and that of their neighbours
can not be heard
though the wind still moves
through bog-cotton and rushes,
over the small face of the tormentil.

Bless us also in those places less well-known
where the location of a path is forgotten
a tool is no longer recognized by its use
names have gone and will not return.