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Poem

A most remarkable parish spire! and, widely acknowledged as 
Just such...constantly commented upon being seen for the 
Very first time.
Pressed into the church's soft sandstone walls, the shallow
Indentations from ball and shot left over from when the
Roundheads had came this way; 
The Royalists did determine to fight to the last man...
Or so it was, reportedly, thus contendend.
The sky above as hollow as a cathedral's resounding dome; and 
Possessing a sort of wild, uncharted immensity...
And not a bird singing...not a single bird in flight.
A strangely discomforting sunshine began to gently filter 
Through the moitionless leaves on the already limp branches 
Of the pale trees; 
Spots of sunlight dappling the pavements and roadway, 
Lying patiently underneath, with a hesitancy akin to 
Reluctant rain.

Pausing in Sainsbury's carpark, I half turned:-
The slow, dulled, monotonous clanging of the grieving bell 
As it relentlessly mourned the passing of it's beloved Queen.
People moving about me with measured deliberation as if on 
Stage acting a part in a Victorian Drawing-room play.
Cars and vans drove more slowly...perhaps they were compelled
To do so by sudden divine intervention? ...or an inexplicable 
Sense of spiritual duty?
Some great, unseen, all-powerful white God who had visted 
Each of them in their dreams and threatened one and all with 
Terrible retribution...and quite rightly so to my way of 
Thinking.
And still the sobbing bell tolled...for it was determined to 
Command this sombre day.

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