Bells

Pulling the rope at 10,

not understanding

the high-anglican robes I wore

or the cord I would wind

around the metal rod

in the pew up near the altar,

because I was bored.

A Pele tower tocsin used

to summon the faithful

nearly a half century ago.

My feet left the ground,

the vicar would help

to bring me down again.

 

Ding, dong, ding dong

it’s the bells that conjure death you know.

 

There are other bells.

 

Alarm bells,

for fires I saw

in Hamburg

or nearer home.

 

Wedding bells,

did I hear a cracked note

the first time,

is that why?

 

MacMillan bells,

hope struck by survival

at least for today

and maybe tomorrow.

 

Funeral bells,

no substitute

for saying goodbye

to a father’s face.

 

“The bells of Hell

go ting-a-ling-a-ling

for you but not for me...”

 

Sometimes I’m still pulling the rope,

but not hard enough

to ring the bell,

and so many changes

have been rung that

the church stays empty

of the faithless,

while the vicar says

it’s all my fault.