The Hardest Hands, the Softest Palms (for Guy Garvey)

So strong,

such a burly lad,

but what vulnerability

in his voice.

Do you sing to us

whilst we die,

in moribund lullaby?

Or do you sing

to keep us alive?

You can get in our spines

without artifice.

You know the quickest way to the heart

is a bullet wound,

quick and painless –

but yours never heals.

We bleed for ever.

Because of you

and your terrible

glorious beauty.

The hardest hands,

the softest palms,

such sensitive elbows,

naked psalms,

and a face made from clay -

fired up by the gods.