Over vast and misty meadows
peals a scale of scattered chimes.
Inexpert ringers miss their moment.
Tattered rhythm, raw and jerky,
a cadence of notes across the village
calls the faithful from far and wide.
With one last look into the mirror,
fancy-skirted , straw-hatted ladies
on the arms of suited husbands,
climb the hill, prepare to pray.
It used to be like that – sadly nowadays they come by car, if they come at all. Few men wear suits and ties, women are no longer seen in hats and gloves. Sweating ringers in bell towers are a rarity, replaced with electronic peals. Forgive me my nostalgic wordling. Written for Brenda’s Sunday Whirl