MATINS
The Sunday morning bells of All Saints church
sound across where once were fields.
No memories here for those that hear them now
in this land of settlers. No cursing farmer
in a hoblit kitchen, dragging a brush
through a daughterís tangled hair,
or struggling with a collar stud before
a tinplate mirror. No families stepping,
black-clad dancers, over furrows, trailing
honest mud through the lichgate. Now
the matins bells pull cars from drives,
through tree lined avenues and lunch
is in the oven, set to gas mark three;
the videoís on timer set to catch
the cricket from Australia.
All around the steeple pigeons spin,
unseated by the rolling bells. The slow
parabola of their fall towards the yews
is etched into the air, the route unaltered,
down the curling path of centuries.
10:44:16 PM 
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