T I M E

Ruddington Bells

The village bells are one beat short of now,
Ring one strike less than true, all through the night.
Thursday bell ringers halt complex changes,
Unknown arms pulling the past towards them,
Throwing ancient patterns, like lace in air,
Driving peaceable dust from belfry walls.

Shout your net of ritual from the tower,
Out above the trees, across our village,
Community with shops, a church, a green,
Homes for eccentrics, families and a goose,
More pubs and allotments than we deserve,
Fall softly, set us in our time, our place.

Catherine Haines, September 1998

Webdesign by L J Winson 1998