Tower

In the cold bell-room at the base of the spire,

the peal no longer tells the time,

it is months since I made the tocsin chime,

when I burned her gown in the brazier’s fire.

If I look out I can see the river,

amongst the green of hedge-rowed fields

until land reaches sky and tamely yields,

now the cold east wind makes Satan shiver.

From time to time, I dare look down,

at the streets and the lanes of this market town:

empty of people save the wicked or fools,

the sellers of wares and the users of tools.

I remain alone in this island-tower,

choosing silence, not marking the hour.