Myra
She is thirteen years old
In pale cotton trousers
And a jacket made from satin
With a broken zipper, still waiting
On the Manchester platform
At Gorton, from mid-February onwards
While the wind cuts into her
Torn down from the dark sky
Over Slaithwaite and Saddleworth
It makes her face purple
And dry, but love approaches
Love approaches her
From every direction at once
She feels that her knees might buckle
Page(s) 38
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