This was written on the publication of the Hillsborough Report in 2012 but seems appropriate today
Liverpool
The Cathedral bell, tolled, could never tell;
nor the Liver Birds, mute in their stone spell;
or the Mersey, though seagulls wailed, cursed, overhead,
in no language for the slandered dead...
not the raw, red throat of the Kop, keening,
or the cops' words censored of meaning;
not the clock, slow handclapping the coroner's deadline,
or the memo to Thatcher, or the tabloid headline...
but fathers told of their daughters; the names of sons
on the lips of their mothers like prayers; lost ones
honoured for bitter years by orphan, cousin, wife-
not a matter of football, but of life.
Over this great city, light after dark;
truth, the sweet silver song of the lark.
Carol Ann Duffy