He gazed at me
Looked down from the pulpit
Carved with God’s trigonometry
And said, My boy, you pulled the rope
You rang the bell
You hung the chime in the dead air
Now you await my blessing or my curse
What do you have to say?
I felt the blistered shapes
Moving outside the corners of my mind
Gathering
And yet unmoved
I caught the dust motes, shadows and the spites
And wished the old priest well
I quietly closed the chapel door
And stole away
Along the grey-leaved late-November path
That briefly ran around the rim of hell
1 comment:
On our country weekend a whole group of us (including the birthday girl) wandered into the local church and rang the bells. Something you're not supposed to do, I would say. And not very sensible - as they could be heard miles away. Just missed the warden, zooming up the path in his little red car.
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