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Poem

So relieved at the Christmas bells,
Which abound in stores and on cards,
That we hear on Christmas Eve,
From churches sounding for their services,
Reminding us that there's a story behind it. 

A bell can be rung to call someone,
Stating that a person is in need,
Endorsing an act of service in care,
Whether you close a window or feed.

It reminds us that all people have the entitlement,
To presume their right to be cared for,
And not just accept what their carer wants to give,
But demand the help which lets them live how they want to live. 

A bell can chime the last call at the pub,
Signalling you to abstract and summarise your conversation,
Collect yourself, your thoughts and conclude,
And feel the warmth that your friend has given you.

And of course, bells remind us of history,
That old technology which stood for so many things and operations in the past,
Like calling lifts or elevators,
Signing to shopkeepers that customers had just come in the door of the store,
Announcing danger ahead for a ship (like the Titanic),
Locating a lost dog or cat (now done with a GPS).

An elevator's bell never asked for your weight,
A store's door bell didn't specify your identity,
And a care call bell didn't state your request,
Nor how it was to be given.

I like bells, because they make me feel secure,
They suggest that making another aware of your presence or problem is fine,
And they normally sound so happy, so joyful,
Without any suggestion ever of guilt,
About their possible calling purpose at the baggage you may have.

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