"... any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee...

— John Donne, Meditation XVII.

 

Saint Christopher Bell

 

We seem to be collectors

of memories and junk,

piles of the stuff;

both kinds lean against damp walls

in self-support, waiting

for purpose,

finding little but rust,

neglect,

disdain;

ambitions flee, the past appals.

 

When the winds gust

in cold defiance,

clatter old paint tins,

rebound off broken spades,

swirl little whirlpools of dust

round dirty corners – this

is our expectation,

and our unexpected Beatitude: Blessed

are the clean and light in heart,

for we alone do as we must.

 

My eleven bells ring

bright and true,

preening on the mantle-shelf

when silence summons a peal

to greet the traveller,

home in May,

while knowing well that December rattles

ever closer:

 

as light lingers one minute less each day,

mere hours yet.

Yet: truly peaceful at end of day.

 

Chris Hubbard

Perth

2015