“Look to! Treble’s going…she’s gone.”

I’d cry the time-honoured words when I was young,

my voice a boyish chirrup. Everyone

 

around me on the belfry floor where hung

the bell-ropes were grown-ups, so it was grand

to lead-off when the peal of church bells swung

 

to clattering action with the six-strong band

following after, letting fly our ropes,

those woolly sallies leaping from our hands.

 

Let’s make this clear - I was limited in scope:

the treble, being lightest, was the single

bell with which a ten-year-old could cope.

 

My understanding was, our merry jingles

were rung in praise of Jesus and of God

but nonetheless I felt a devilish tingle

 

when Mum let slip, our captain - Bill - was odd

in that when all the others finished ringing

and filed out into church, he was the bod

 

that went straight home. While me and Mum were singing

praises, ours was a faith Bill could ignore

and when he set a mighty church bell swinging

 

he did it as a hobby, nothing more.

That came as revelation to this youth

who up till then was absolutely sure

 

that everything the grown-ups said was truth.

It clouded an idea which formerly shone,

that clanging faith can drown the need for proof.

 

Now Mum, Bill, and the rest have all moved on.

I still “look to”, but God is also gone.