Change Ringers

This valley I love
is no sundered granite cleft
shrugged into existence
but soft, woven into gentler fabric
gathered in by gloved hands.

A hamlet hearth
welcoming as the womb.
coveted secret, close clasped
as a fragile infant
is held to the breast.

Come Maytime
in blossom-heavy hawthorn thickets
bickering sparrows gather in gangs
for the annual turf war
muscling out the finches.

And the cuckoo
thuggish pretender
transmits its signature call
a muffled station ident
from an unidentified location.

Half distant, across the corn
atop the valley side
stands The Holy Angels
thrusting Victorian invocation
of a once-English God

where, with evening
the bell-ringers come
and nature is nudged aside
as the pitching, rolling changes
flood the valley

with rivers of sound
a wordless hymn
conceived and composed
in the industrial clamour
of a far off Black Country foundry.


3 thoughts on “Change Ringers

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