woman Sweeping
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The bell ringers
It rings a bell
the campanologists are competing
Although at this stage I don't know this
Their sonority has yet to reach my timpanis membrane
As I negotiate the mini roundabout on foot
At the heart valve of the village
Having sat the last hundred yards in silence
After rebuking my wife
For almost taking a wrong turning.
It's all about the particulars see.
You are to be found around the back of the Sussex Oak
And suddenly the bells clang into focus
The air is jubilant and expectant.
Although I sense this is a rehearsal
It isn't for the campanologists.
Life is not a rehearsal they chime.
Each pull is a meaningful yank
(hear a clang across the pond)
on the placenta of heaven's womb
One false move and blood will rain.
but until then here is a medley of events
From the radiant to the apocalyptic
Through the funereal via the every-day come hither cycle of the Sunday service.
We sit supping our pints in a session
And you roll an ex-smoker a fat one that will take a few days …
the campanologists are competing
Although at this stage I don't know this
Their sonority has yet to reach my timpanis membrane
As I negotiate the mini roundabout on foot
At the heart valve of the village
Having sat the last hundred yards in silence
After rebuking my wife
For almost taking a wrong turning.
It's all about the particulars see.
You are to be found around the back of the Sussex Oak
And suddenly the bells clang into focus
The air is jubilant and expectant.
Although I sense this is a rehearsal
It isn't for the campanologists.
Life is not a rehearsal they chime.
Each pull is a meaningful yank
(hear a clang across the pond)
on the placenta of heaven's womb
One false move and blood will rain.
but until then here is a medley of events
From the radiant to the apocalyptic
Through the funereal via the every-day come hither cycle of the Sunday service.
We sit supping our pints in a session
And you roll an ex-smoker a fat one that will take a few days …
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